Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy
by Christine Morgan
Summary: A fanfic novella to be posted in weekly chapter installments (twice-weekly starting in 2005), set just after "Order of the Phoenix" and not connected with any of my previous fanfics.
1. Troubled Thoughts

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter One: Troubled Thoughts  
Christine Morgan

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Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

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On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Harry Potter entered the kitchen of Number Four Privet Drive to find his aunt making a cake. 

He did not for a moment fool himself into thinking that the cake had anything to do with him. Past experiences had shown that his relatives, the Dursleys, were not likely to bother with so much as a card, let alone cake or presents.

Harry should have been used to it by now. And it was not as if his birthday went totally unremarked-upon by everyone in the world, as it had done for the first eleven years of his life. He had just that morning received a card from his friend Hermione, and another bearing his other best friend Ron's distinctive semi-legible scrawl. Both promised presents later.

Still, it rankled to walk in and see Aunt Petunia lavishing a triple-layer chocolate cake with icing and sugar flowers. She went about this chore with a sort of frantic desperation, with many a chirpy question directed at her son as he sat slouched at the kitchen table.

"A few more flowers, don't you think, Diddykins? And shall we have ice cream with it? Or would you rather those little jam tarts you like so much? Dudders?"

Dudley, Harry's cousin, wrested his glazed eyes away from the kitchen television and looked at his mother.

"Would you like to lick the frosting bowl, Dinky Duddims?" She thrust it under his nose, almost bashing him in the mouth with the bowl's rim.

Harry hung back in the doorway, observing as Dudley reached out with a slow dearth of enthusiasm and took the bowl. It made a plunking sound as Dudley set it on the table. Aunt Petunia pressed a spoon into Dudley's hand, her smile strained so tight that Harry thought he could hear her skin stretching.

"There you go, my Ickle Diddums."

A long moment passed while Dudley peered into the bowl. A ponderous frown crawled across his face. It reminded Harry for all the world of the way his classmates had sometimes looked in Divinations class, knitting their brows as they tried to make sense of soggy blots of tea leaves.

In the old days, Dudley would have dived into the bowl so fast he'd have been in danger of cracking his skull on the bottom. He would have surfaced with his fat cheeks and chin smeared with chocolate, and more chocolate stuck in the baby-fine blond curls of his hair. He had not too long ago been suffering through a diet regime, living on sprouts and lettuce and grapefruit, so the forbidden sweets would have been all the more coveted.

Now, though...

It gave Harry a shiver to watch his cousin. He had never liked Dudley. Had, in fact, once been the constant subject of Dudley's taunts, beatings, and bullying.

But even Dudley didn't deserve this.

The Ministry of Magic had done what they could for him, within what limits Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would allow, after that fateful summer night almost a whole year ago.

The night of the dementors. Two of the nightmare creatures had cornered Harry and Dudley, and surely would have sucked out their souls if Harry had not violated the Statutes of Secrecy in order to summon a Patronus to drive them away.

He'd wondered, ever since, just what Dudley had endured during those few awful moments. Harry's own run-ins with the dementors had caused him to relive his worst memory, the memory of a one-year-old baby hearing his parents murdered as they tried to protect him. His father's shouts, his mother's screams, Voldemort's shrill laugh as first James and then Lily Potter fell before him.

Dudley, of course, would have no such tragedies to haunt him. If anything, Dudley's worst experiences had probably all come at the hands of wizards, just in the past few years. Hagrid giving him a pig's tail... Fred Weasley's 'accidental' spill of Ton-Tongue Toffees...

There was no chance of finding out, though. Shortly after the dementor incident, Harry had been whisked away to spend the last few weeks of summer with the Order of the Phoenix. He hadn't seen or heard from any of the Dursleys until just a month ago, when they had arrived at King's Cross Station to meet the Hogwarts Express, returning Harry from the worst school year of his entire life.

At that time, Dudley had seemed all right. Until Harry got a closer look at him. Dudley was _not_ all right. Dudley had changed.

For one thing, he was thinner. Not _thin_; he still weighed three times what Harry did. But... thinner. And in an unhealthy way.

Previously, Dudley's love of beating up on people had translated itself into a skill at boxing, and his flab had begun converting to muscle. Now, though, Dudley was a pale, saggy pudding of a boy. He had lost his formerly all-consuming  in every sense of the term  interest in food. Aunt Petunia had left off the diet and tried tempting her precious Diddykins with all his favorite meals, but Dudley only poked food around his plate.

His cheeks were no longer pink. His piggy eyes had lost their greedy glint. And Harry wasn't sure, but he thought that there might be a few strands of white in Dudley's blond hair. It was as if the dementors had spun ahead the hands of time, turning Harry's cousin into a prematurely old man.

Uncle Vernon had no trouble laying the blame squarely on Harry. Aunt Petunia might have known more about dementors than she let on  that she had let on anything at all still astonished Harry whenever he thought of it  but her husband was steadfast in his utter refusal and rejection of anything and everything having to do with the wizarding world.

_Harry_ had done this. Not these dismembers, or whatever they were. And even if it was the dipenders, it was Harry's fault for bringing them down on Dudley.

If Uncle Vernon had had his way, Harry would have been out on his ear. That would have suited Harry just fine, too. But, now more than ever, Harry had nowhere to go and too many reasons to stay.

Thanks to Dumbledore. Dumbledore and his plans, Dumbledore and his secrets. Dumbledore, who had worked some big spell to ensure that Harry would be safe from Lord Voldemort so long as he could still live under his aunt's roof. Dumbledore, who had hardly even acknowledged Harry for all of last year.

The familiar anger twisted its way through Harry like a rope of braided fire, wormwood and acid.

At that moment, Dudley swung his head around and caught sight of him. Harry's expression must have been too well reflecting his feelings, because Dudley uttered a high squeak and lurched backward in his chair. His elbow hit the frosting bowl. It skidded off the table and smashed on the floor.

Aunt Petunia whirled. "What are you doing, sneaking about like that?" she cried, rushing to Dudley and enfolding as much of his quivering mass as she could in her thin, birdlike embrace.

"Nothing," Harry said.

"Did he scare you, Diddims-darling?"

"What's all the racket?" Uncle Vernon burst in, plum-colored with indignation. He spotted Harry, and glowered. "You. I might have known."

"I didn't do anything," Harry retorted. His fists curled, and he wished that his wand was curled into one of them.

"Hmph, a likely story," Uncle Vernon said, as Aunt Petunia continued to croon and fuss over Dudley. But as long as you're here, boy, a word about tomorrow."

"Yes?" Harry arched an eyebrow, knowing that it couldn't possibly have anything to do with tomorrow being his birthday.

"We're having company for tea." Vernon's thick sausage of a finger jabbed menacingly at Harry. "And I'll have none of your funny business. No owls, none of those... those _folk_ dropping by. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Don't you be mocking me, boy. I know you get some perverse delight in ruining important events for this family, but I've about had enough."

"_You've_ about had enough?!" Harry's voice rose, and Dudley cringed against his mother's scant bosom. "How d'you think _I_ feel?"

"Pretty damned cocky, I should say," blustered Uncle Vernon. "Those _friends_ of yours, daring to speak to me that way at the train station! I should have given them a piece of my mind."

"As if you had any to spare," Harry muttered.

"What was that?"

Harry mutely shook his head. He knew what Uncle Vernon was talking about. At the end of the school year, several members of the Order had calmly informed the Dursleys that they fully expected to hear from Harry on a regular basis, or they'd be dropping by to check in with him.

It was unclear which of them had offended the Dursleys most. Mad-Eye Moody, with his blazing-blue magical eyeball hidden beneath a bowler hat? Tonks, in jeans and Weird Sisters tee shirt, hair of bubble-gum pink screaming up from her head? Lupin, shabby and gaunt, with the shadow of the werewolf's curse somehow lurking in his gaze?

The idea of such people paying a call to Number Four Privet Drive was enough to raise Uncle Vernon's blood pressure into the red zone and give Aunt Petunia quaking fits of nerves. So far, none of them had done it. But that was only because Harry had been allowed to correspond with everyone by means of owl post. He kept assuring them all that he was fine. It was a lie, of course, but there was nothing wrong that any of the Order or any of his friends could fix.

Harry left the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia had resumed trying to get Dudley to eat the rest of the frosting, or would Dinky Didkins prefer that Mummy made him a nice peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich? Wasn't Duddums hungry at all? Wouldn't he just eat a little bit, to make Mummy happy?

The whole thing was pretty pathetic, Harry thought. Here was Dudley, finally losing weight, and Aunt Petunia was hysterical about it. The change had been so dramatic, even, that they'd taken back some of the hand-me-down clothes that had been given to Harry. Dudley's cast-offs were still acres too big for Harry, and he usually spent his summer holidays shuffling around in shirts and pants so baggy they could have served for a clown costume.

At least, that was how it had been before Tonks had turned up at Mrs. Figg's house one afternoon a couple of weeks ago. Harry had been over there on the pretext of helping give medicine to Mrs. Figg's cats, but really checking in and assuring the batty neighbor Squib that he was all in one piece.

Tonks had breezed in, promptly stepping on two cats. "Wotcher, Harry!" she'd called cheerfully, in case he didn't recognize her in her current guise as the disheveled sort of lady who looked like some cousin of Mrs. Figg.

She'd then tripped over a third cat, broken a vase, and gotten hopelessly tangled in the coat-tree's brass-tipped branches. It took both Harry and Mrs. Figg, hampered by the meowing cats, to set her straight again.

Nymphadora Tonks, who refused to go by her first name, was an Auror. Harry wavered between being deeply envious of her  fighting Dark wizards was the career he most wanted to pursue  and wondering how, accident-prone as she was, Tonks had lived this long. She was also a Metamorphamagus, with the rare inborn ability to change her appearance at will.

It had been because of this ability that Tonks had learned several Tailoring Charms to alter her clothing to suit her new images. She taught these to Harry, who used them to size Dudley's garments down to fit his own much different shape. He'd shot up many inches recently, especially in the legs.

Of course, when Aunt Petunia had gone to borrow back some of Dudley's old clothes and found that they no longer even fit the recently-reduced Dudley, she'd nearly fainted. Then, she'd scolded Harry for a solid hour about using magic, somehow without ever once referring to it directly.

"You're not supposed to, outside of that school!" was the closest she could come to stating it right out.

Harry had given her a level look. "The Ministry of Magic has bigger things to worry about, now that Voldemort's back."

This was the truth, direct from Tonks. The Ministry was in a very bad light, after the whole truth had come out about Voldemort, his Death Eaters, the break-ins in the Department of Mysteries, the murders, the conviction of the innocent Sirius Black, and various other cock-ups and cover-ups.

Not least of which was the abominable conduct of Dolores Umbridge, erstwhile Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, one-time High Inquisitor, and briefly, Headmistress of Hogwarts. Her abuses of power had rocked the Ministry to its core.

The wizarding world as a whole had taken a severe blow in its trust of Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, as well as the wizarding newspaper, _The Daily Prophet_.

Everything was in an uproar, and so Harry hadn't been all that surprised when Tonks told him that nobody was about to bother much with a few Underage Wizardry transgressions.

Saying so to Aunt Petunia had caused the blood to drain from her face. Harry wasn't sure whether this had to do with him essentially telling her he could do magic whenever he pleased, or whether it was because he'd reminded her that Voldemort was back. Whatever else she might think of him, and of witches and wizards in general, the fact remained that Voldemort had personally murdered her sister.

Dumbledore seemed to think that mattered, somehow. Harry felt nettled whenever he thought about that whole business. All this time, and Aunt Petunia had known more about what was going on in _his_ life than she'd been saying. Which was nothing new... he was surrounded by people who knew what was going on and wouldn't, for whatever reason, see fit to enlighten him.

Hedwig clicked her beak at him as he entered his room, still lost in thought. Her perch was beside the television set.

Uncle Vernon's concession to keeping Harry happy, in hopes of keeping Moody and the others away, had been to give him one of Dudley's old sets after they'd bought Dudley a brand-new plasma television. This way, Harry could keep up on the Muggle news without resorting to hiding in the bushes and listening through the window, which was what he'd done all the previous summer.

The Muggle news, however, remained less than helpful. So did the _Daily Prophet_, which had at least quit its snide attacks on his character. Ever since that terrible night in the Ministry, everything had been quiet. Too quiet.

Harry fed Hedwig an owl nibble. She bumped her beak against his fingers affectionately, and blinked her huge golden eyes. An inquisitive sound came from her throat. She fidgeted on her perch.

"No, I don't have any post to send today," he said, stroking her downy white feathers.

She clicked at him again, reprovingly this time.

"What? All right, so I haven't written to Ron or Hermione in a while. What of it?"

Another golden-eyed blink.

He sat on the edge of the bed and propped his chin in his hands. The room around him would have popped the eyes of any of the Privet Drive neighbors, what with the broomstick propped in one corner, the cauldron and pile of spellbooks on the desk, the snowy owl, the black robes hanging neatly in the closet.

Hedwig seemed to be staring fixedly at the windowsill, where Harry had put his cards from Ron and Hermione. Ron's letter contained the usual invitation to come and visit at the Burrow, but it was a diffident, hesitant invitation, as if Ron knew that Harry didn't particularly want to be at the Burrow.

That was the trouble. Normally, he loved visiting the Weasley house, which was cramped and ramshackle and absolutely brilliant with its many quirks and its happy clan of red-haired Weasleys.

But things were different, now. There was a deep and bitter rift between Percy, one of Ron's brothers, and the rest of the family. Percy worked for the Minister of Magic, and even though the Ministry's official stance now was that Dumbledore had been right all along, Percy's pride wouldn't let him make amends.

Too, Ron's brothers Fred and George were no longer living there, as they had a shop to keep up in Diagon Alley. The Burrow just wasn't the same without them around, causing trouble.

Harry's spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team had been taken over by the youngest Weasley, Ginny. He was sure that since his lifetime Quidditch ban had been lifted in the wake of Dolores Umbridge's disastrous stint at Hogwarts, he'd be reinstated on the team when school started again. If he wanted to be... and that was the trouble. He wasn't sure if he _did_ want to be Seeker again.

"It's not only that I would feel bad about usurping Ginny's place," he told Hedwig, who hooted softly at him. "It's... I don't know. What's the point of it, really? Flying around trying to catch a little golden ball, when out in the _real_ world, people are suffering and dying... it's stupid."

He remembered how hurt he'd been last year when Ron had been made prefect instead of him. That, too, seemed sublimely stupid now. Prefects, which of the four Hogwarts Houses was going to win the House Cup, how well he'd done on the O.W.L. exams he'd taken at the end of the last term... none of it mattered. It was all dumb school stuff, meaningless.

"Like Voldemort gives a kettle of dragon dung about any of that stuff," Harry said to Hedwig. "So what if Gryffindor gains or loses points? It's all empty. It doesn't mean anything."

Hedwig hooted again, reprovingly this time, as if even his owl objected to his use of Voldemort's name.

"Oh, stop," he said. "I don't need that from you. At least Hermione's come around and can say it now, even if Ron still can't without practically having a nervous breakdown. What, would you rather I call him the Dark Lord, like Snape does?"

Thinking of Snape made his lip curl. If anything, he and the Hogwarts Potions Master hated each other worse now than they ever had before. He wondered sourly if Snape had gotten in trouble with Dumbledore for canceling Harry's Occlumency lessons.

"Talk about dismal failures," he said, letting his forehead drop into his hands. "If I'd really tried, if I hadn't been so curious about that corridor... even if I hadn't looked in the Pensieve! Everything might have come out different."

Shame burned in his heart, his gut, and his cheeks. How much of it was Snape's fault and how much of it his own, he didn't know how to calculate. Probably not even Hermione, Arithmancy genius that she was, could figure that out.

The worst of it was that all this time, Harry had been priding himself on taking after his father, believing the good that everyone else said about James Potter and dismissing Snape's remarks as being born of remembered rivalry and a spiteful mind.

"But Snape... he had the right of it," Harry said miserably. He heard a ruffle of feathers and felt a soft weight beside his leg as Hedwig hopped onto the bed. "That time he accused me of strutting around Hogwarts like my dad, and I said, all self-righteous, that my dad didn't strut... but he _did_ strut, didn't he?"

The scene Harry had witnessed in the Pensieve felt as indelibly carved into him as was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.

He didn't understand how it could be, though. The Pensieve, at least as far as he understood it, enabled a person to remove his own thoughts and memories from his head, and store them in the stone bowl as sort of a liquid-silver substance. He had looked into Snape's memories of Snape's own fifth year at Hogwarts and seen the younger versions of James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

How, if the Pensieve was supposed to show him _Snape's_ memory, had Harry been able to wander away from the memory-image of Snape to overhear his father and his father's friends? They had been talking about things that _Snape_ wouldn't have known at that time, talking about Lupin being a werewolf, about their own full-moon adventures as Animagi. The Snape in the memory had not been paying any attention to them, not until James decided to entertain a bored Sirius by picking on Snape.

"If it was just Snape's memory," Harry said, stroking Hedwig, "I could... not discount it, but... well, tell myself that his memory was colored by his hate for them. But it showed me stuff that Snape didn't know. So it was more like... more like a real window onto the past than a moment of memory. Which means it _wasn't_ colored by Snape's hate. That was the way he really acted. My dad."

He raised his head. The bedside table still held a framed photograph of his parents, both of them smiling and happy and looking very much in love.

"They _were_ happy," he said. "They _were_ in love. I believe what Lupin and... and Sirius ..."

Harry choked on his godfather's name. Tears stung his eyes. He snatched off his glasses and wiped the tears away, angrily, on his sleeve.

"I believe what they told me," he said. "About how my mum got to like him all right after he settled down and stopped being such a bullying prat."

Still, it wrenched at him to think that his father, the one everyone said Harry so resembled, _had_ been a bullying prat in the first place.

A flapping rustle at the window brought his head around in a hurry. Three large owls were jockeying for position there, while a smaller fuzzy shape the size of a tennis ball zoomed in over their squabbling heads. Hedwig let out an indignant hoot and hastily resumed her perch, fluffing her feathers out grandly and eyeing the fuzzy tennis ball as if daring it to come too close.

The fuzzy tennis ball  really, Ron's owl Pigwidgeon  paid no attention to Hedwig. Pig sped in delirious circles around Harry's head instead. Only the reflexes of a born Seeker let him grab the little owl from the air before Pig made him too dizzy to see straight. He replaced his glasses on his nose and was able to make out the other three owls as they sorted themselves out and came into the room.

One by one, they delivered their parcels and letters into his hands, then made their manners to the still-fluffed-out Hedwig and departed. When they had all gone but Pig, Harry had a pile of packages on his bed, and he could hear the heavy stomp of Uncle Vernon coming up the stairs. Quickly, he threw a blanket over the packages, and stuffed Pig into an open drawer.

The footsteps paused. Harry could envision Uncle Vernon out there, red in the face, having heard the hooting and dearly wanting to shout at Harry, but fearful that if he did so, before he knew it, a pack of wizards would be at his front door. When everything stayed quiet, except for Pig's excited flutterings in the drawer, the footsteps retreated down the hall.

Harry examined the packages. Once, the sight of actual birthday presents would have made his heart leap. Now, he did feel pleasure, but it was tinged with dolefulness.

The largest was clearly from Hagrid, and contained a slab of nut brittle that was not brittle at all; it could have served as a stretch of cobblestone paving and would crack the teeth right out of Harry's jaw if he tried to eat it.

The next one bore Hermione's neat script, and contained a beautiful lesson planner bound in black leather, with the letters D.A. embossed on the front in gold.

A rueful laugh escaped Harry as he ran the pad of his thumb over these letters. Did Hermione really think that the Defense Association, also known as Dumbledore's Army, was going to be allowed to continue? They would have yet another Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year, presumably one who really knew his or her stuff  if, that was, Dumbledore could find anyone to take the job, which was by now well and truly believed to be jinxed. The last thing the students would be permitted to do would be to independently study under Harry's tutelage.

But, flipping through the creamy pages, he shared for a moment Hermione's hope. Quidditch might not mean anything to him now, but the D.A. still did. At least in the D.A., they were doing something that _mattered_. The charms, jinxes, curses and countercurses they'd studied had been put to good use when he, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny and Luna Lovegood had ended up deep in the Department of Mysteries.

"Not good enough use," he said. "We failed. I could have gotten them all killed. I _did_ get Sirius killed. And for what?"

Hermione had been right about him. Harry Potter and his "saving people thing." She had been right, and to really rub it in, even Voldemort had known that much about his young adversary. All they'd accomplished, in the end, was to make sure that Voldemort could never hear the complete wording of the prophecy.

"It wasn't worth it," he said to the owls, as Pig emerged from the drawer, cheeping, with a sock draped over his head. "I would have handed the prophecy over to him myself if it would have brought Sirius back."

His anger flared anew at the memory of Sirius, hit with a spell from his cousin, the Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. Falling backward through that arch, through the billowing black tatters of the veil. Falling, and then just... gone.

What were they thinking at the Ministry of Magic, anyway? To have something like that set up on a pedestal in the middle of a room, without a fence around it, without even a warning sign? All right, so it was hidden in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, where not just anybody was supposed to be able to wander in, but... but still! Something that dangerous, sitting right out unprotected? If he'd been American, Harry thought with a flash of dark humor, he'd sue the Ministry for the loss of his godfather.

Then again, he should just be grateful that he wasn't sitting in Azkaban right now, with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of the Death Eaters. He had, after all, cast one of the Unforgivable Curses. He'd attempted to use the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange, and give her back a taste of what she'd given to Neville and his parents. That was a life term in Azkaban right there, hanging over his head.

But it wasn't like the Lestrange woman was going to turn up and accuse him. She had escaped with Voldemort, and whatever they tried to do to Harry to exact their revenge, it wouldn't be through the Ministry's legal system.

Harry took a deep breath and attempted to shed this chain of bleak and gloomy thoughts. If Hermione had gotten him a Pensieve, instead, he could have been rid of them for good. He rubbed the letters on the cover of the lesson planner again, and set it aside.

The last package was small and looked rumpled, as if it had been opened and re-wrapped several times. As he undid the paper, a card fell out. There was a note. Brief, terse.

_Found this. Thought you might want it. Checks out okay. _

The note was signed, _Moody_.

A wry grin tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth. "Checks out okay... that's Moody, all right."

But the grin fell off his face the instant he opened the package and saw what was inside.

He should have known. One of Moody's previous well-meaning gestures had consisted of showing him a photograph of the Order of the Phoenix back in their heyday, so many of them subsequently dead or driven mad, Harry's and Neville's parents among them.

The item that lay in his hands was a mirror, an old mirror in a tarnished silver frame. The glass was dark and clouded, showing his reflection only dimly, as if through a pall of smoke.

"Oh," Harry said, strengthlessly. He closed his eyes and bit his lip until his teeth drew blood.

When he had control of himself, he got up, ignoring Pig's jubilant swooping and diving around him as he went to his trunk. It sat open against the wall, a jumble of school items he'd never properly put away strewn across the bottom. There was his Sneakoscope, and the half-eaten box of sugar mice Professor Flitwick had given him, and the glossy heap of his Invisibility Cloak.

And, folded indifferently into a threadbare Dudley-sized pajama shirt, was a small mirror, dark glass, tarnished silver frame. Harry picked it up. It was the twin of the one Moody had sent him.

An urge gripped him, an almost irresistible urge, to hurl both mirrors against the wall as hard as he possibly could. To shatter them into a million pieces.

Hedwig hooted, as if reading his mind and reminding him of seven years' bad luck. Fourteen, if he broke them both.

"_Bad_ luck?" Harry scoffed, and barked a harsh laugh. "Bad luck? I don't know how my luck could get much worse, to tell you the truth!" He followed this up with a vile epithet that left Hedwig astonished on her perch.

Even Pig stopped in mid-air, taken aback. The little owl looked, in that instant, weirdly like Ron, eyes wide, beak hanging open, utterly dumbfounded expression.

"If I'd _thought_ ...!" Harry shook the mirrors, almost dashed them together. "If I'd just thought to use these, it all could have been prevented. I would have known Sirius was safe at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and I never would have gone rushing straight to where Voldemort wanted me. Everything would have been different."

Pigwidgeon settled carefully onto the perch beside Hedwig, and Hedwig, gaze still riveted on Harry, didn't object to the small, fuzzy interloper.

He took another breath, this one shuddering in and out of his chest, and lowered the mirrors. Now they were both his, the last legacy he'd ever get from his godfather.

"What do I do with them, that's the question," he mused.

Ordinarily, he might have given one to Ron, so that the two of them could communicate any time they liked, just as Sirius and James had done in school. But he discovered, with a sinking sense of dismay, that he didn't really want to be able to communicate with Ron. Or to have Ron readily able to communicate with him. He didn't want to give a mirror to Hermione, either.

"And they're my only real friends," he said.

Hedwig blinked reproachfully at him.

"Well, they are," he protested. "Lupin, all right, maybe he does like me... or maybe it's just because he feels obligated to my father. Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt and everybody else in the Order... to them, I could just be another assignment from Dumbledore. All that time they spent having to guard me... like I was some _thing_ and not a person. As for Hogwarts... half the time, they've thought I was some sort of crazy show-off. Even when they believe me, how many of them really trust me, or see me as anybody other than _the_ Harry Potter?"

He caught himself, realizing that his voice was climbing to a near shout. As he scrubbed his hands through his messy mop of black hair, Pigwidgeon zoomed into his face again. At last, Harry saw that the little owl still had something tied to its leg.

"Okay, okay," he said as Pig battered against his palms like a badminton birdie gone berserk.

Getting Ron's owl to hold still long enough to be relieved of the burden was always a challenge, but at last Harry triumphed and released Pig to whirl happily through the bedroom again.

The parcel was tiny, and when he opened it, it turned out to be a wooden box with a clear crystal lid. Inside, on a bed of what looked like wine-colored velvet, rested an old-fashioned, ornate brass key.

He read the note, deciphering Ron's scrawl.

_Dear Harry, _it read_. Dad got this authorized. It's a Portkey. If you want, it'll bring you to the Burrow anytime. Hope to see you soon. Ron._

As soon as he finished reading the note, the clock began to chime. Midnight. His birthday. He was now sixteen years old.

Continued in Chapter Two: Dudley's Tea Date.

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_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan / _


	2. Dudley's Tea Date

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Two: Dudley's Tea Date  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

Previously:  
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts

* * *

"Today's quite important, isn't it, Dudley?" Uncle Vernon said at breakfast, his voice taking on a bluff, boisterous tone. "A big day." 

"We're so pleased," simpered Aunt Petunia.

Harry refrained, with effort, from rolling his eyes. He kept his attention focused firmly on his plate, forking overcooked scrambled eggs into his mouth and reaching for the marmalade.

It was quite early on Sunday, the sky outside only just touched with the pearly pinks and golds of dawn. Harry, who had stayed up late and been unable to get to sleep even once he'd gone to bed, felt like he had only half an eye open. Huge yawns kept threatening to split his head in half.

The Dursleys were little better off, but unlike Harry-- still in sweatpants and a tee shirt-- all three of them were washed, brushed, combed, and dressed in their literal Sunday best. Dudley's suit seemed to hang on him, having the simultaneous effect of making him look both enormous and diminished.

"That Jane is a lovely girl," Uncle Vernon said, clapping Dudley heartily on the back.

Dudley flinched.

"And from such a good family," Aunt Petunia added. "A vicar's daughter, isn't that nice?"

This time, Harry couldn't stop the eye-rolling, but it was all right because none of the Dursleys were looking his way.

Regular attendance at church was a new development at Number Four. In previous years, it had been one of those things reserved primarily for Christmas and Easter.

Harry, of course, had never been to church with the Dursleys. He'd always been left with Mrs. Figg-- before he had known she was a Squib-- or on his own, with stern instructions not to handle any of Dudley's Christmas presents or Dudley's Easter treats.

Probably, he thought with a grim smile, the Dursleys figured that if someone like Harry set foot inside a church, there would be billows of sulfur and brimstone. Or the steeple would be struck by lightning. Or the ground would crack open and swallow him entire.

Lately, though, a new vicar had come to Little Whinging, and Uncle Vernon had gotten it into his head that church was a good place to make vital business and social connections. So, every Sunday, the three of them went out to the early service.

Harry had already come to cherish these mornings. If he was lucky, the Dursleys would extend their outing by going to brunch. Sometimes, they weren't back until noon or later. He had the house to himself, several blissfully quiet hours to study his spellbooks and practice his wand-work.

Today, though, was fixing up to be different.

Somehow, after the incident with the dementors, Aunt Petunia had gotten it into her head that what Dudley needed was a girlfriend. She had made it her mission to ask various neighborhood girls over to Sunday teas, starting with Vicar Kirkallen's daughter.

"and she's bound to be so impressed," Aunt Petunia was saying as she smoothed Dudley's hair. "My Dudders is such a handsome boy, and has the most _exemplary_ manners. She'll be charmed."

As the word fell from her thin lips, she blanched and made a terrible grimace, the way she always did whenever anyone-- no matter how innocently-- used words like 'magic' or 'owl' or 'broomstick.' Vernon cleared his throat. Dudley, between them, sat slack and limp as a deflated balloon.

"Yeah," Harry said, not trying very hard to keep from sounding sarcastic. "The girls will go nuts for him. I can tell."

"No one asked your opinion," Uncle Vernon said stiffly. "And no one would expect you to know anything about decent girls. I've seen that crowd you run around with."

"That horrible hair!" said Aunt Petunia, though it was unclear whether she meant Tonks' bubble-gum pink, Hermione's bushy brown, or the flame-red that was the trademark of the entire Weasley family.

Harry wished for one second that the Dursleys could see some of the _other_ girls he'd met. Fleur Delacour, for instance, with her shimmering fall of silvery-blond veela hair and her luxurious French accent. Or Cho--

He winced, expecting it to hurt too much to think about Cho. But, to his surprise, there was only a tired old twinge.

Still, he supposed that Uncle Vernon was right, in a way. Not that Harry would ever admit it to him. But when it came to girls, he was the first to agree that he didn't know anything about them at all. Didn't understand them, with their giggles and their tears and their insane logic.

He did know that the kind of girls Dudley used to be interested in, before the dementors had left him like this, were not the kind of girls Uncle Vernon would have classified as 'decent.' Dudley and the gang of thugs he called mates would occasionally let girls follow them around, liking an audience when they beat up on younger or smaller kids. Girls in short skirts, with lots of eye-make up and jewelry. Girls who smoked, and had piercing laughs that made bats fall dead out of the sky. Girls who jeered and mocked and catcalled as Dudley's battered victims tried to escape.

Not, Harry was sure, vicar's daughters.

However, as Uncle Vernon had pointed out, no one had asked for Harry's opinion. He was left to do the breakfast dishes and clean the kitchen, and Aunt Petunia's parting shot as she'd straightened her prim little church-going hat was that if he put so much as a finger on the cake, tarts, cream-cheese sandwiches, and other tea-time goodies that filled the pantry icebox, he'd be sorry.

When they had gone, Harry let out a sigh of relief. He finished his chores and went up to his room. Reluctantly, he sat down at his desk and chewed on the end of a quill, a sheet of parchment unrolled in front of him.

"Dear Ron," he wrote. "Thanks for the Portkey and the birthday card."

That was as far as he got. Conflicting desires were warring inside him. He yearned to escape Privet Drive, but at the same time, he wasn't keen on going to the Burrow. Nor did he want to visit Grimmauld Place... if the Order was still even based there. How could they be? Number Twelve was the ancestral home of the Blacks, and the last of the Blacks was gone.

What would become of the house? Harry wondered, chewing more on the end of the quill, until the feather was damp and crumpled. And what of Kreacher, the mad old house-elf?

Thinking of Kreacher made him grind his teeth in frustration and dismay. The house-elf had been the one to tell Voldemort's supporters how Harry cared for Sirius, and that had been what set off the final, disastrous confrontation.

He supposed that, with Sirius dead, the property would go to some relative. Not Bellatrix Lestrange, surely; she was in hiding somewhere with Voldemort. It would probably fall to Narcissa Malfoy, mother of the despicable Draco.

And wouldn't Draco gloat about that! His father, Lucius, was in Azkaban thanks to Harry, and unable to get revenge any other way, Draco would be certain to sneer about his family inheriting Sirius' home.

With a disgruntled snort, Harry pushed the unfinished letter aside and turned to the envelope that had arrived shortly before breakfast. It contained his book list for the upcoming school year. The sight of it annoyed him.

A book list.

Like everything was going to be normal. Like there wasn't a war on.

He was just supposed to go calmly back to school. To another year of classes and homework, evenings in the Gryffindor common room, weekends at Hogsmeade, Quidditch practice, House points, passwords, and all the other senseless minutiae that, in the greater scheme of things, didn't matter at all.

Back to the customary rivalry with the Slytherins, a rivalry that had gotten more deadly serious with each passing year. Draco and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, would want payback not only for the humiliations they'd suffered on the Hogwarts Express-- the three of them had been so thoroughly jinxed and cursed by members of the D.A. that they had been left as oozing sluglike masses on a luggage rack-- but also for the disgraceful arrests of their fathers.

All too soon, Harry heard the Dursleys' car pull into the drive, and the nervous twittering of Aunt Petunia as she rushed into the kitchen to begin getting lunch ready. Harry trudged downstairs long enough to eat a sandwich and endure a lecture from Uncle Vernon. That lecture was old hat by now, a reminder of what Harry should and shouldn't say and do when company was over. On the off chance, that was, that Harry happened to be called upon to speak.

"... for Incurably Criminal Boys," Harry finished wearily, as Uncle Vernon loomed over him with bristling eyebrows. "They use the cane. I've been caned loads of times."

"Good," said Uncle Vernon, who probably thought that Harry could use a good caning, and would have loved to be the one to give it to him. "But it's best if you're not seen at all. I hardly think that Vicar Kirkallen would want his oldest girl exposed to... to _your_ sort."

"Yeah," Harry said.

The appointed hour finally arrived, and the vicar's sober black car pulled up in front right on the dot. Harry watched from an upstairs window as a tall, slightly stooped man with a high, pale brow got out of the driver's side, and a girl got out of the passenger's side.

Vicar Kirkallen, in a sober black suit that matched his car, looked more like an undertaker than a preacher. He was a greying, balding man who moved with the long scissoring strides of a stork.

His daughter was a slim figure in a white cardigan and a modest dress the exact color of a sherbet lemon. Her dark brown hair was drawn back from her face by a pair of yellow barrettes, and fell to the middle of her shoulder blades.

Dudley, no doubt prodded by Aunt Petunia, met them on the porch and welcomed them inside. Harry lost sight of them but could hear the vicar's mellifluous voice carry through the house. Introductions were made, and then came a moment that, clearly, Uncle Vernon had been hoping to avoid.

"I understand that your nephew lives with you, as well?" the vicar inquired. "He's not been coming to church. Is he in poor health?"

"Ah... no," said Uncle Vernon. "He's... ah... rowdy. Apt to be disruptive, don't you know. A sad case. My wife's sister's boy. Orphaned. We've done the best we can with him, but kindness and charity can only do so much."

Harry could have vomited.

"I'd like to meet him," Vicar Kirkallen said. "Perhaps I could offer my guidance."

"Oh, well, I don't know if that's... it's really very nice of you, Vicar, but ..." Aunt Petunia stammered. "After all, a busy man like yourself... really... you shouldn't trouble yourself."

"No trouble at all. Please, Mr. Dursley, Mrs. Dursley, it's the least I can do after you've been so welcoming to me and my family. And, if I dare say so myself, I know a bit about handling problem children. Isn't that so, Jane?"

A murmur of assent, followed by Uncle Vernon's heartiest, falsest laugh.

"Oh, come now, Vicar, you can't possibly imply that this pretty young lady is a troublemaker! I'm sure she's a credit to her parents."

"In that, Mr. Dursley, you're probably right. But, now, about this nephew of yours. I should very much like to meet him."

In his mind's eye, Harry could envision his aunt and uncle exchanging a trapped, helpless look. They couldn't tell the vicar too many bad things about Harry, or else it would reflect badly on the rest of them and ruin Dudley's chances with Jane-- not, in Harry's opinion, that Dudley had a chance, or even wanted a chance, with her. But neither did they want to bring him downstairs. Not after the ruined dinner party with the Masons, or the blowing-up of Aunt Marge.

"I'll fetch him," Uncle Vernon finally said, sounding defeated.

Moments later, his trudging steps came to a stop outside Harry's door. There was a short rapping knock, and then the door opened.

Harry, of course, had moved to sit on the bed and not give on that he'd been listening. He glanced up with a manufactured look of surprise. "What? I didn't do a thing!"

"Downstairs, boy. Now. The vicar wants to meet you. And mind that you're on your best behavior, your absolute best, or you'll be sorry."

It was an empty threat, and clear to both of them that Uncle Vernon knew it. Harry followed him down to the parlor, where Aunt Petunia was fussing with a tray of triangular sandwiches and the vicar was examining the collection of photographs crowding the walls and mantle. They were all of Dudley, at various stages in his life, and Harry thought that many of them would have been right at home in a livestock catalog.

The flesh-and-blood Dudley was taking up most of a sofa. Opposite him was Jane Kirkallen, sitting primly in an armchair with her cardigan folded across her lap. They were both silent, and avoiding each other's gazes.

When Harry came in, Jane glanced up, and for a moment her eyes widened. Then she hastily stared down at her hands, which were fiddling with the buttons of her sweater.

The strangest thing was, she looked familiar to Harry. He didn't know why, didn't know how he could have ever seen her before. Maybe she just reminded him of someone else.

Before he could pursue that line of thought further, Vicar Kirkallen stepped in front of him and held out a hand. "Hello," he said in a kindly tone. "You must be Mrs. Dursley's nephew. I don't believe I caught your name."

"Harry. Harry Potter."

In the wizarding world, every time Harry introduced himself to someone new, the same reaction always took place. A darting upward look, at the lightning-bolt scar partly concealed by his unruly black hair, and then a hesitation, as if the person were almost afraid to touch The Boy Who Lived for fear of getting walloped with an electric shock.

Vicar Kirkallen did neither of these things. He clasped Harry's hand and wrung it firmly. "How very good to meet you, Harry Potter."

Harry noticed both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia watching closely, and it occurred to him that they were probably waiting for the moment when the vicar would shriek in pain and draw back a hand reddened with blisters from contacting the unclean skin of a wizard. When nothing of the sort happened, their faces drooped with what might have been disappointment.

"Sorry?" Harry said, as Vicar Kirkallen had been talking.

"I asked where it was that you went to school."

"Oh. Yeah. Um ..."

Behind the Vicar's back, Uncle Vernon made urgent gestures.

"St. Brutus'," Harry said resignedly. "For Incurably Criminal Boys."

The vicar drew back a little and released Harry's hand. Beyond him, Harry saw Jane glance at him again. She _did_ look familiar. But that was crazy. He didn't know any teenage girls, except the ones who went to Hogwarts and a few who hung around Dudley's gang.

"He's not _dangerous_," Uncle Vernon was quick to reassure the vicar, though his nervous laugh belied the statement. "We do the best we can with him, but it's better for all concerned if he avoids being around others. Not really fit for company, sorry to say."

There was an awkward pause, which Aunt Petunia leaped into with evident gratitude when she saw Jane fiddling with her sweater.

"Oh, my dear girl, do let me take that for you!" She descended on Jane like a striking hawk and plucked the garment from her hands, with a wide toothy smile.

"Please, that's all right, Mrs. Dursley," Jane said, making a futile effort to snatch the cardigan back. "I'd rather keep it with me --"

"For goodness' sake, Jane," the vicar scolded. "Is that any way to show your appreciation of these good people's hospitality?"

"I'm sorry." Jane bowed her head and bit at her lower lip.

"And then I think I'd like some tea, Petunia," Uncle Vernon said, before there could be another of those awkward pauses.

"Right away, Vernon. Vicar? Some tea for you as well?" She shoved the sweater at Harry, and hissed, "Make yourself useful and hang this up."

He went into the front hall, past the cupboard under the stairs that had been his bedroom for most of his life. He could hear the clink of china as Aunt Petunia poured tea and served out plates of treats, and the adults chatted to cover the oppressive silence coming from Dudley and Jane.

As Harry hung Jane's sweater on a coat hook, his fingers brushed something hidden in an inside pocket. Something long, thin and cylindrical, a shockingly known shape. He jumped as if he'd been stung by a bee, then shot a quick, furtive look over his shoulder at the parlor doorway. No one was in his line of sight, which meant that none of them could see him. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the object.

A dusty echo of a voice seemed to speak up in his mind. It was the voice of Mr. Ollivander. "Mahogany, eleven and a half inches, core is a hair from a manticore's mane."

A wand.

_Did_ he know Jane from school? Was she a student at Hogwarts? He supposed it was possible for him not to know her by name even if she was... he knew all his fellow Gryffindors, and most of the Quidditch players. He knew the people in the D.A., and everyone who would, like Harry himself, be starting their sixth year. But Jane was a year or so younger than him. Ginny's age.

He imagined Jane in black robes instead of a sherbet-lemon dress, and felt more sure than ever that she looked familiar. He must have seen her in passing, on the Hogwarts Express or in the halls of the castle, maybe having a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks some Hogsmeade weekend.

A witch. Jane Kirkallen, the vicar's daughter, Dudley's tea date, was a witch.

She knew him, too. That explained the way her eyes had widened when he'd come into the room. Of course, that in itself was no big surprise. Everyone knew Harry; whether he liked it or not, his notoriety had only grown with each passing year.

What would the Dursleys do if they found out their guest was another one like Harry? One of "those folk," of "his kind," or all the other, less polite terms that Uncle Vernon used?

But her father, clearly, had no idea who Harry was. The vicar was a Muggle through and through.

"You simply _must_ try the cake, Vicar," came Aunt Petunia's voice, startling Harry back to his senses.

He replaced the wand in the inside pocket of the sweater, and hung the sweater back on the hook. A lively, buzzing curiosity was awake in his mind. He hadn't felt much of an interest in anything for weeks now, ever since Sirius and the black veil. But finding a witch in the very parlor of Number Four Privet Drive... he had to know what was going on.

"Thank you, Mrs. Dursley, but I really should be going," the vicar said. "I did only come by to drop Jane off. Perhaps your son would be good enough to walk her back to the parsonage?"

"Dudley would be happy to," Uncle Vernon replied.

"Well, then, I'll be off. Have a nice time, Jane. And... remember your manners, won't you, girl?"

It sent a shiver through Harry. The vicar sounded eerily like Uncle Vernon, telling Harry that there was to be no funny business, no embarrassing them in front of decent people. Always with the inherent threat of "or else."

He hurried upstairs as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon walked Vicar Kirkallen to the door. From his vantage point at the top landing, he could see straight down onto the tops of their heads.

"Do call again, Vicar," Aunt Petunia was saying in her simpering way. "You're always welcome in our home."

"And don't perturb yourself for one minute about your daughter. Our Dudley is a perfect little gentleman," Uncle Vernon said.

"I'm sure that he is. Jane, however... Jane can be a bit... high-strung," the vicar said. "She gets it from her mother, God rest her soul."

"Oh!" Aunt Petunia's hands flapped. "Why, Vicar, I'm so terribly sorry... I had no idea ..."

"The current Mrs. Kirkallen is my second wife," he explained smoothly. "It's a trial to her sometimes, coping with a teenager. They can be willful, can't they?"

Something in the way he talked set Harry's nerves on edge. The vicar's tone, the way it was absolutely devoid of warmth when he talked about Jane... it almost reminded Harry of Snape. Snape, with his cold, carefully-controlled hatred that sometimes bubbled up like seething poison vapor from a cauldron.

Bidding the Dursleys a good afternoon, and saying he would look forward to seeing them again in church next Sunday, the vicar took his leave. Aunt Petunia waved from the porch as he went down the walk and got into his car. Only when he had driven away did she step back inside, shut the door, and turn to her husband.

"That didnt go as badly as it could have," she said. "But, oh, Vernon, when he said he wanted to meet _him_, I nearly fainted."

"_Him_," Harry whispered, shaking his head. "She'll be calling me You-Know-Who next."

He meant it as a joke, but it didn't feel very funny. For most of last year, he nearly _had_ been You-Know-Who. He and Voldemort, connected, aware of each other's moods and thoughts. There hadn't been any stabbing pains in his scar since the Department of Mysteries, no bizarre dreams, no flashes of icy-hot joy or murderous rage. Perhaps, aware that both Harry and Dumbledore were onto him, Voldemort had given up that avenue for now.

"I know, Petunia dear," Uncle Vernon said, patting his wife on her bony back. "But the vicar knows a bad egg when he sees one. He's a wise enough man to not hold _him_ against our Dudley, so that's all to the good. It's just what Dudders needs. I don't mind telling you, I'd begun to have my concerns about those friends of his. I wonder if they haven't been trying to coax our boy into bad habits. Do you know, he came home late once and I could have sworn I smelled alcohol on his breath?"

Aunt Petunia went ashy-grey. "If those ruffians are leading my precious Ickle Diddims down a wayward road, I'll have a word or two for them!"

"I think we've headed it off nicely by this clever plan of yours, Petunia. Getting him to spend more time with girls, that's the key."

"What do you think of Jane?" Aunt Petunia asked.

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "A fine, proper, demure young lady. If this is the vicar's idea of a high-strung troublemaker, I think we haven't a thing to worry about."

Smothering a snort of laughter, Harry retreated to his room. He would have given ten Galleons for one of Fred and George Weasley's Extendable Ears inventions, though he wouldn't be all that surprised if Dudley and Jane hadn't said a word to each other in all the time they'd been left alone.

He settled for keeping his normal, non-extendable ear close to the door. He heard snippets of conversation, mostly Aunt Petunia exhorting Dudley to tell Jane this, or tell Jane that. He heard the snap-flutter of cards as Uncle Vernon tried to engage everyone in a game of canasta.

It felt very strange, having a witch in the house with nobody knowing. Harry went back to his desk and picked up his barely-begun letter to Ron. He added a line, asking Ron to ask Ginny if she knew a girl named Jane Kirkallen, because she was having tea with Dudley. Then he wrote that he reckoned he'd be seeing Ron in London, when they met in Diagon Alley to purchase their school things.

By the time he'd finished, he could make out voices from the hall again.

"Here's your cardigan, Jane," Aunt Petunia said.

Harry waited for the clatter of a wand falling out onto the floor, which would be bound to be followed by Aunt Petunia's ear-splitting screams of horror. But nothing of the sort happened.

"And here's ten pounds, Dudley," Uncle Vernon said. "You and Jane might want to stop on the way for a soda pop or an ice cream."

Dudley mumbled something in return, and Jane said, "Really, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, I don't mind at all walking home by myself."

"Nonsense!" boomed Uncle Vernon. "Dudley is up for a stroll, aren't you, lad?"

"Sure, I reckon," said Dudley in a low, flat voice.

The two of them went out. Harry tied the letter to Hedwig's leg and instructed her to take it to Ron as soon as it had gotten dark enough. She hooted and nipped his thumb.

Five minutes later, shrugging into a jacket and trying to look nonchalant, he ambled downstairs. In the parlor, Uncle Vernon was picking at a slice of cake and Aunt Petunia stored away tarts in small plastic bags, fretting to herself that it wasn't like Dudders to scarcely eat a bite.

"It's all right, Petunia," Uncle Vernon said. "Probably having the girl here curbed his appetite. Wouldn't have wanted to seem rude, stuffing his face in front of her with his usual gusto, now, would it?"

He broke off, scowling, as Harry went by.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?"

"Out," Harry said. "Just out for a walk, is all."

"You'd better not be up to anything," Aunt Petunia told him, her lips compressed into a tight line.

"I'm not. Honest. I just thought I'd go down by the park for a while."

The park being in the other direction from the parsonage, he saw them relax as they understood he wasn't planning to sabotage Dudley's special date.

Uncle Vernon picked up a magazine on drills and machinery, and riffled the pages. "Isn't it getting to be about the time those... those red-headed people come to fetch you for the rest of summer?"

"Yeah, well, I expect they've been busy," Harry said.

"Well, when they do, I don't want any of that theatrical rubbish," Uncle Vernon said, burying his face behind the magazine. "None of those flying cars, or people stepping out of the fireplace, or phony lawn awards."

Harry bit back a grin. Last year, it hadn't even been the Weasleys to come and fetch him. The phony lawn award had been Tonks' work, and she, along with Lupin, Moody, and a bunch of other members of the Order, had shown up to escort him in a broomstick caravan to Grimmauld Place.

"Okay," he said. "I'll see what I can do."

This made Uncle Vernon lower the magazine and glare at him over the top of it. "I expect you think this is all very funny, don't you? What the neighbors must think of this house by now, I shudder to wonder. Owls flying in and out at all hours of the day and night ..."

He disappeared behind the drill magazine again. Harry turned to go, only to find Aunt Petunia there, twisting her apron in her hands.

"If... if anything... _happens_ out there," she said, in such a halting and almost concerned manner that Uncle Vernon came out from behind the magazine a second time. "You'll... you'll be... well, careful, won't you?"

Harry would have been touched by this, except he knew that her concern was not directed at him. She only wanted him to look out for Dudley. It would all be fine and well if something happened to _Harry_, if a dementor came along and sucked out his soul, or agents of Voldemort ambushed him, as long as Dudley was at a safe distance.

Looking up at her-- though not by much; he was very nearly of a height with her by now-- it struck him that he had never asked much about her parents. Lily's parents. His Evans grandparents. They had been alive and well when one of their daughters went off to Hogwarts. Happy about it, even. "We have a witch in the family," wasn't that what Aunt Petunia claimed they had said?

Had they, then, been at the wedding? Had they ever seen their baby grandson? Or had they died-- and how?-- before Harry had been born? He remembered the Mirror of Erised, and all the people with his and his mother's large green eyes, his and his father's unkempt black hair. The mirror had shown him his heart's desire, his family. It had _not_, he thought now, included any images of Aunt Petunia, or Dudley.

"I'll be careful," he said, and patted the pocket where he kept his wand.

It was a mistake; Aunt Petunia went the color of cottage cheese and swayed on her feet a little, like she might swoon onto the parlor rug.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, not really meaning it, and headed for the door.

The summer evening was cool, and full of long blue shadows. A fresh breeze was just picking up, and once, Harry would have loved to get on his broomstick and kick off, flying high into the twilight with the wind rippling through his hair. Even now, after everything that had happened, he felt the tug of yearning, the desire to soar through the air and leave everything that bothered him behind, like heavy, earthbound stones.

Keeping to his word, he did go toward the park. As he neared it, he saw a familiar group of boys by the playground. They had chased away all the younger children with their swearing, smoking, and rough talk.

One of them, a lanky friend of Dudley's, was walking in circles on the metal merry-go-round, stepping over the bars with his gangly legs. Two others of the gang leaned on a dustbin, keeping an eye out, while another used a pocketknife to carve something into the wooden surface of a picnic table.

A girl with big hair and a big bust and a tiny skirt sat on the low rock wall that bordered the park, blowing out regular streams of blue-grey cigarette smoke in between checking her lipstick in a compact mirror.

And there came Dudley, skirting as many shadows as he could and sticking to the pools of light left by the streetlamps. His mates didn't know how much Dudley had become afraid of the dark since last summer. How he needed a night light these days, and still sometimes woke the household, sobbing for his mother, saying that it was cold, so cold.

Harry couldn't help feeling a little bit vindicated by this. After all, last summer, Dudley had been giving him a hard time about his own nightmares. Nightmares about the graveyard, and Voldemort, and Wormtail's bloody stump replaced by a shining silver hand, and Cedric sprawling dead on the hard ground. It was Dudley's turn to wake in the night, gasping and tearful.

"Hey, Big D!" called the boy on the merry-go-round. "Finally escaped, did you?"

"Tea with the new vicar's daughter," jeered the one with the pocketknife. "Did she let you kiss her, Duds, or maybe get a feelie?"

"Ha, ha," Dudley said, exhibiting about the first signs of life he'd shown all day.

"Dudley and Janie, sitting in a tree," chanted the girl. "Kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-enn-gee."

"Shut it, all right, Babs?" Dudley said, flushing a dark brick red.

Entertaining though it was to see Dudley getting teased for a change, Harry came to a sudden decision and reversed his course. He left the park, and headed across town.

Continued in Chapter Three: Damsel in Distress.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan / _


	3. Damsel in Distress

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Three: Damsel in Distress  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me. 

Previously:  
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts  
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date

* * *

The parsonage was a trim and well-kept Tudor-style house surrounded by a flower garden and a lawn that Uncle Vernon doubtless envied. A wooded greenbelt separated the house from the churchyard cemetery. From the front walk, only the tall white spire of the church was visible against the darkening sky. 

Harry slowed his pace to a stroll as he drew near. He still had no idea what he was doing here, or what he was going to say if anyone should question him. 

Many of the windows were brightly lit. The front door stood open behind a screen. On the lawn, four children were playing an energetic form of croquet that seemed primarily to consist of whacking the painted balls with more mayhem than aim. All of them were young, the oldest perhaps seven. A playpen had been erected under a spreading tree, and a fat-bottomed toddler sat within, chewing on a stuffed bear. Each and every one of the children had curly yellow hair, snub noses, freckles, and overbites. 

A woman, very obviously their mother, appeared on the stoop. A linen kerchief was tied over her hair, and she wore an apron over a maternity smock. "Almost supper time," she announced. "Let's put away the toys and wash up, shall we?" 

A chorus of protests came from the croquet-playing quartet, as they begged for "just five more minutes." 

Thinking that this was almost what the Weasley family might have been like several years ago, Harry smiled. It wasn't without a touch of regret, because seeing any happy family reminded him that he'd never had a chance to know his own. He would never know what it was like to have brothers or sisters, a loving mother calling him in for suppertime, a father to take him aside for man-to-man talks. 

He picked up his pace. It had been dumb to come here. What had he been expecting, anyway? To talk to Jane? What was he going to do, walk up to the door and knock and ask if she was in? The vicar would recognize him straightaway, and demand an answer from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia as to why their disreputable nephew had the nerve to come 'round to his house. 

It was just that he was so starved for wizard company. He hated being cut off from the world in which he truly belonged. Even though it was only for a few weeks, he found it increasingly unbearable. Especially now. 

Mrs. Kirkallen rounded up her children and herded them inside, lugging the toddler on her hip. Harry watched them go, rather wistfully, then turned the corner that would take him alongside the parsonage. It would have been quicker to take a shortcut through the greenbelt and the cemetery, but a graveyard – _any_ graveyard – was the last place he wanted to be. 

A sudden raised voice stopped him in his tracks. 

"I told you, I didn't do anything wrong!" 

Jane. He was sure of it. 

He'd been passing the high fence that bordered the backyard, and the gaps between the planks showed him narrow slices of the rear of the house. The back door burst open, and Jane stormed out. She had changed into jeans and a rose-colored blouse, and looked both furious and on the verge of tears. 

The vicar was close on her heels, face flushed, eyes snapping with angry sparks. 

"I wasn't finished talking to you, young lady. How dare you turn your back on me when I'm speaking to you!" 

"Yelling at me, more like," Jane retorted. She had tied her hair back in a ponytail. Her white cardigan was on but unbuttoned, flaring out to either side of her like wings as she spun toward the vicar. "I told you, he didn't want to walk me all the way home." 

"You must have done something, said something, offended him somehow. And I won't stand for that sort of behavior. It was very good of the Dursleys to invite you over. Fine way to repay their courtesy! What did you say to their son?" 

"Nothing!" 

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that a well-bred young man like that would leave you to walk home on your own?" 

"It's the truth." 

Harry, who knew that Dudley rarely liked to walk anyplace that didn't have either a food source or someone to beat up as the destination, could certainly believe it. He suspected that Uncle Vernon's ten-pound note had not gone toward ice creams, either. 

"I'm warning you, Jane," the vicar said. "The rest of us happen to like it here. A beautiful house in a nice neighborhood, good schools, a prosperous congregation … I won't have you stirring up trouble." 

"How many times do I have to say it? I _didn't_!" 

"You'll be lucky if the Dursleys ever invite you back. Or anyone else, for that matter, once word of your rudeness gets about." 

"Who said I wanted to go to tea there in the first place?" 

"This isn't about what you want!" he spat. "As long as you're living under my roof, you will conduct yourself like a decent young lady. We've been over this and over this, Jane, and somehow it never seems to get through to you. When you receive an invitation, you accept it politely and you be a proper guest. We agreed when we moved here that there would be no more of your standoffishness. No more hiding away in your room with those … those _books_!" 

"I need to –" 

"You need to listen to me and mind me!" He thrust a finger in her face. "It's getting harder and harder to tolerate your willfulness. If this is the sort of thing they teach you at that school, maybe I was wrong to ever let you go in the first place. Maybe I shouldn't send you back." 

Jane had gone pale. Harry, meanwhile, had forgotten all about passing by and was pressed to the fence as if glued there, his eye up against one of the cracks in the boards. 

"I won't leave Hogwarts," she said in a hollow whisper. "I won't." 

"You will if I say you will," he said. "Never forget that in the eyes of the law, at least, I am still your father. I only agreed to let you go because –" 

"Because it would get me away from your new wife and her litter," Jane said. 

The vicar's hand went up, poised to slap her face. Harry had hold of his wand without remembering when he'd grabbed it. But Jane never budged, and the blow never fell. 

"I let you go to that school because your mother had wanted you to," Vicar Kirkallen said, lowering his hand. "Because I thought it would help you get yourself under control. And, yes, perhaps part of it was to help keep peace in the rest of the family." 

"They're no family of mine. _She_ hates me, and you know it. She can hardly sleep at night when I'm around holidays, thinking that I'm going to hex you all in your beds or turn her brats into toads or something." 

"That's quite enough, Jane. I won't be spoken to in this manner." He seemed to be struggling manfully to keep from shouting, or from raising that hand again. "We've been most tolerant of your peculiarities." 

The look she gave him was bitter and venomous. 

"I don't think you understand my position. I am a vicar, a man of the cloth. Do you have any idea of the damage it would do my reputation to have it found out I've got a _witch_ living under my roof?" 

"Who says I _want_ to live under your roof? I can handle myself. I'll be fine on my own." 

"Jane, don't be a fool. You're fifteen years old. You're still my responsibility, whether either of us likes it or not. The last thing I'm about to do is turn you loose on the streets." 

"I suppose _that_ would damage your reputation, too," she said. 

"All I ask is that you try to behave in an appropriate manner," he said. "I hardly think that's so unreasonable of me." 

Her shoulders slumped. "Will you tell me one thing?" 

"What's that?" 

"Why did you keep me after she died?" 

"How can you even ask? What was I going to do, send you to an orphanage? That would hardly look good, now, would it?" 

"Oh," Jane said. "Oh, yes, of course, how stupid of me. It's all about your reputation. That's why you married her, isn't it? Because it might look bad if you broke the engagement without telling anyone why. And you couldn't tell anyone why, could you? Because that would look bad, too." 

"Jane," the vicar said warningly. 

She held up her hands. "All right. But I don't want to be sent around to any more tea parties." 

"It's your duty. We need to try to fit into this community, to make friends, to get along with people." 

"They aren't my kind of people." 

"We can be thankful for that," the vicar said. "You'd do well to associate with fine upstanding citizens like the Dursleys. Well, perhaps not that nephew of theirs –" 

At this, Jane uttered a short laugh. 

"Do you find something amusing, Jane?" The vicar's eyes narrowed. "You had best not be thinking about that Potter boy. From what I've heard, he's been an endless trial to his poor aunt and uncle." 

"Don't let it worry you," Jane said. "I'm sure I'm the _last_ person Harry Potter would be interested in." 

Harry, still glued to the fence, blinked in surprise at the bitter self-loathing he heard in her tone. 

The vicar sighed. "Jane, I do only want what's best for you. What's best for all of us. And I know that when a girl gets to be a certain age, she might find herself drawn to the wrong sort of boys. Rebels, troublemakers, criminals and the like. It always ends badly, and those girls soon come to realize that they're far better off with respectable boys, the ones who might not be daring and dangerous and good-looking, but who will be solid, dependable, and trustworthy." 

It was hard to say which bemused Harry more, hearing himself inadvertently described as "daring, dangerous and good-looking," or hearing Dudley described as the trustworthy, respectable type. At this very moment, Dudley and his gang were probably smoking, shoplifting, getting an adult to buy them beer, beating up on younger kids, or any combination thereof. 

"Can we please be done talking about this?" Jane pleaded. "It's nothing like that at all. Dudley Dursley … he just didn't like me, all right? He didn't want to walk me all the way back here. Why is that such a catastrophe? It doesn't have anything to do with his cousin, or with anything I said." 

The back door opened, and Mrs. Kirkallen peeked out, blonde curls in a halo around her freckled face. "Gerald? Supper is on the table. I need you to carve the roast." 

"I'll be right there," he said. 

"Jane?" There was a definite lack of fondness in Mrs. Kirkallen's tone as she addressed the girl. "Are you joining us for supper?" 

"I'm not hungry." 

A small, relieved smile dimpled Mrs. Kirkallen's chipmunk cheeks. "Well, all right, then." She retreated, and closed the door. 

"I wish you'd try harder," the vicar said. 

"It's not just me …" Jane trailed off, and looked at the ground, shaking her head. 

She stood like that while the vicar went back into the house. Then, when the door had shut firmly behind him, she blew out a frustrated exhalation of breath. 

"Two more years," she said to herself. "Just two more years, I'll be of age, I can get out of here." 

That was a sentiment with which Harry could absolutely sympathize. It was only one more year for him, until by the standards of the wizarding community, he'd be an adult, able to take the test to get his Apparating license. His worst unspoken dread was that even after he was seventeen, Dumbledore would still try to insist that Harry return annually to Privet Drive. 

Jane spared one final glance at the house, then shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and headed for a gate in the backyard fence. It creaked, and she disappeared through it, into the greenbelt on the other side of the property. 

Harry debated inwardly, then went after her. It was a crazy idea, reckless, impetuous. But what was he supposed to do? Ignore what had just happened? Forget what he'd just heard? 

Had Hermione been here, she probably would have sniffed and gone on about his "saving-people thing." And, truth be told, he had been ready to intervene if it looked like the vicar really had been about to slap Jane. He couldn't stand around and watch a girl get hit. No true Gryffindor could, in good conscience. 

The greenbelt was not very thick. Nor was it very dense. The trees were widely spaced, with paths curving and winding among the lower ground-covering bushes. As woods went, it was not about to put the Forbidden Forest out of business anytime soon. 

But, with the sun having fully set, and the leading edge of a fat silvery moon just beginning to rise, it was fairly gloomy under the leafy canopy. He could see a steady gleam ahead. It was the unmistakable glow of a wand-light. 

Harry picked his way, trying to be quiet as his feet crunched and rustled on twigs and underbrush. He didn't bring out his own wand and light it, but used the glow ahead of him to find his way down a slope, and into a clearing. A little brook bubbled through this clearing, chuckling over a bed of rocks. He saw the fleet shadow of a cat dart past, a hint of eerie eyes reflecting at him and then gone. 

One of the trees was stout, gnarled, and old. Someone had built a wooden platform in the fork of its lowest branches, built it many years ago judging by the weather-worn boards and the rusty heads of the nails. Other boards had been nailed to the tree trunk to form a crude ladder, these rungs now askew or broken in long splintery cracks. 

The wand light was coming from up there. Harry could see a dangling pair of jeans-clad legs and sneakered feet on the far side of the platform. 

He tiptoed over to the tree and pulled on one of the board rungs, testing it. The board wiggled but held, so Harry started the climb. He was halfway up when one of the rusty nails pulled free with a squalling noise, and the rung fell away beneath his right foot. 

A muffled curse popped out of his mouth. He caught at a branch to stop himself plunging all the way back to earth. Flakes of bark sifted down into his hair. The bough groaned and swayed. 

"Who's there?" 

Jane Kirkallen stuck her head over the edge of the platform, ponytail hanging down over one shoulder. She had doused the wand light, but there was enough ambient moonlight from the just-risen full moon to let her recognize Harry, and she gasped. 

"Hi," Harry said, very aware of the undignified nature of his pose. "Don't suppose you've got any iced pumpkin juice up there?" 

Her throat worked as she swallowed, and when she tried to reply, only a choked stammer came out. 

"Guess that's a no," Harry said. He hauled his right foot to the next ladder rung. "That's a shame. I miss pumpkin juice over the summer, don't you?" 

She scrambled backward. Her chest was hitching, and her mouth opened and closed a few times. 

Harry raked bark chips out of his hair and offered what he hoped was a disarming grin. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked in a breathless rush. 

"I found your wand in your cardigan pocket this afternoon at tea. I wanted to talk to you." 

"You … you followed me?" 

"Saw you leaving the parsonage," Harry said, not wanting to tell her that he'd overheard her argument with the vicar. "Can I come up?" 

"You really shouldn't be here," she said. "Or I shouldn't." 

"Yeah. But I am." He boosted himself up onto the platform. "You didn't know I lived with the Dursleys, did you?" 

"No. When you walked in … I knew who you were, of course – who doesn't? – but I never expected … they're your family?" 

"If you can call it that. Aunt Petunia was my mother's sister." 

Silence spun out between them. Harry, now that he was here, didn't really know what to say. "So, um … you'll be starting fifth year?" 

She nodded. "I hear it's rough, what with preparing for the O.W.L.s." 

"Yeah, no kidding. I never had so much homework." 

He wanted to talk about _real_ things. Things that mattered. Not empty school-stuff. He wanted to ask her what she thought about Voldemort and the imprisoned Death Eaters, what she reckoned had ever happened to Dolores Umbridge, where she stood in the war that the Order seemed to believe was coming. 

Beside him, shooting him sideways glances, Jane seemed really nervous. 

Not that this was anything new to Harry. In his second year, people had thought he was the Heir of Slytherin, going around petrifying his enemies. In his third year, his habit of passing out when dementors came near had led people to think he was touched in the head. In his fifth year, everyone had thought he was an attention-seeking lunatic. He had been vindicated on every account, but he was getting dismayingly accustomed to being regarded with that wary caution. 

"I'm not a nutter," he said to Jane. 

"I didn't say you were." 

"Yeah, but you were thinking it." 

"No, I wasn't. I know you're not crazy." Her smile was hard-edged, almost cynical. "Though, after everything you've been through, you _should_ be." 

"Thanks." 

"Anybody else probably would have cracked." 

"I just did what I had to do," he said. 

"And a good thing you did," she said. "It was really brave. Coming out with it like that, telling the world the truth about You-Know-Who and his followers. Now we know who they are. Death Eaters. You saw them. You heard their names." 

"That's right," Harry said, hearing something in her tone that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. "Most of them are in Azkaban." _For now_, he thought but didn't say, and wondered if Jane would say it for him. 

She didn't. "A lot of their children go to Hogwarts." 

"Sure," Harry said, thinking of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. And some other boy, too … Nott, his name was. "But what's it to you?" 

"Death Eaters killed my mother." 

"Oh. Hey, sorry, I didn't know." 

"Nobody does. It wasn't like they used _Avada Kedavra _on her, but they killed her, all the same." 

"That's why you live with your dad?" Harry asked. "I bet it's pretty hard, him being not only a Muggle but a vicar." 

"My mother gave up wizarding life to marry him," Jane said. "She was from an old family, purebloods for hundreds of years. She was the last one, and she threw it all away because she fell in love with a Muggle. I don't know if that was romantic or just plain stupid." 

"Could be either," Harry said after pondering it. He looked down at the brook, rippling silver in the moonlight, and saw the shadow of the cat again. It was a shaggy calico that resembled Mrs. Figg's cat Aristotle. "She must have loved him a lot." 

"For all the good it did her. I guess he was different then. Before." 

"When she was still alive, you mean?" 

"Too many of us – kids, I mean, who weren't old enough to remember what it was like – don't know what those people are capable of," she said, ignoring his question. "What they're _really_ capable of. Just how evil they can truly be. That's why I think it's great that you were teaching people how to defend themselves. They still won't know, not until they're right in the middle of it, but at least they'll have some idea what to do." 

"You know about the D.A.?" 

"I heard some other girls talking about it," Jane said. "Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood. They were in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and didn't know I was there. That's how I found out about your big secret meeting at the Hog's Head." 

"Some secret meeting," Harry said dryly. "So secret that everybody knew about it. But why didn't you come? It sounds like you were interested." 

She laughed. "I was at that meeting." 

"You were?" Harry cast his mind back over the meetings, over the list that Hermione had made everyone sign. "I … I don't remember …" 

"Well, I wasn't _in_ the Hog's Head. I was listening at the window." 

"You should have come in." 

Her laughter turned to a sigh. "I didn't think I'd be welcome." 

"What? Why not?" 

There was a sudden sharp snap, like a whipcrack. Harry knew that noise, the sound of someone Apparating or Disapparating. 

A shapeless pile of rags appeared below the treehouse, wafting up a mixed odor of onions and stale beer. The rags parted, and bloodshot eyes squinted up out of a scraggle-bearded, grimy face. 

"'Ere 'e is! Up the tree, ain't 'e?" 

"Mundungus?" 

Before Harry could even begin to react, he heard another whipcrack, and another. These both came from behind him on the platform. He heard the solid clump of wood on wood, and a strong hand closed on the collar of his shirt. He was yanked backward and upright, emitting a startled bleat. 

"What in hell d'you think you're doing, boy?" growled the unmistakable gravel voice of Mad-Eye Moody in Harry's ear. 

Across from him, Tonks had appeared, looking like she was on her way to a rave with a starched spray of pure silver hair, a leather jacket covered with zippers, knee-high boots, fishnet tights, and a plaid vinyl miniskirt. She pointed her wand at the shocked Jane Kirkallen, whose own hand was frozen inches from the pocket of her cardigan. 

"Don't do it, girly," Tonks advised. 

"Toldja I'd find him," Mundungus Fletcher crowed from the base of the tree. "Had to make up for that little slip-up of mine last year, didn't I? And here he is." 

"Fine, Dung, great, now shut it," Tonks said. 

"Hey!" Harry struggled. "What's going on?" 

Moody gave him a shake that rattled his teeth in his head. "Time you learned to keep your wand in your pants, son!" 

"You told me not to!" Harry protested, now thoroughly confused. "You told me wizards could lose their buttocks that way." 

"As for what's going on," said Tonks, "that's what we'd like to know, but you can explain later. Come on, Mad-Eye. Let's get him home before Molly gets her knickers in any worse a knot, or his auntie has a heart attack." 

"What? Home? You mean Privet Drive? Mrs. Weasley is there? With Aunt Petunia?" 

"Harry, who are these --?" Jane began. 

"That's enough out of you, missy!" roared Moody, his oversized electric-blue eye rolling wildly in its socket to glare at Jane. 

"She didn't do anything!" Harry said. "We were just –" 

"Explain _later_," Tonks repeated, and stuck two fingers in her mouth to emit a piercing whistle. A broomstick with no one on it descended of its own accord to hover at the edge of the platform. "On you go, Harry." 

"But – but I –" 

"On you go." 

"As for _you_," Moody said to Jane, who flinched back from that ferocious blue eye, "I'd suggest you get yourself home and count yourself lucky we're letting you." 

"Hey!" Harry twisted away from Moody's grasp. "Don't talk to her like that!" 

"Harry, get on," Tonks ordered. 

"You'd better go," Jane said. 

"Yes, he'd better!" Moody's eye whirled from her to Harry to her again. "I think you've done enough damage for one night, missy!" 

"She hasn't done any damage," Harry argued. 

"Buttocks on the broom, Harry, or you really might lose one," Tonks said, lifting her wand. "We don't have time for this." 

It crossed his mind to defy them further, to make them _force_ him. A wrathful indignation had welled up inside him. He was still being watched, still being monitored, and had they bothered to let him know? Keeping track of his every move – that _had_ been Mrs. Figgs' cat Aristotle, he was sure of it now – and busting in on him like this when he hadn't done anything wrong … Dumbledore was behind this, Dumbledore, who evidently _still_ thought that Harry couldn't look after himself. 

But he knew full well that if he pushed them, they _would_ force him. Better to go with at least some of his dignity intact. 

"Sorry about this," he said to Jane, as he swung his leg over the broom handle. 

"You two Apparate and I'll escort him back," Tonks said, getting on behind Harry. 

It was disconcerting; he had ridden double and even triple on a hippogriff but never ridden two on a broom before. Tonks was crowded close against his back. He could feel her fishnet-clad knees digging into his legs. She had a firm grip on his belt, either to hold on or to make sure he didn't try to get away. 

The broom rose in a sudden smooth acceleration. It was no Firebolt, just Tonks' old Comet Two-Sixty, but it was the first time Harry had been on a broom in weeks. Despite his indignation and confusion, he relished the soaring sensation. 

They sped up through the canopy, shedding a shower of leaves in their wake. Harry glanced back to see first Mundungus Fletcher and then Mad-Eye Moody Disapparate, leaving a bewildered Jane alone at the tree. 

"Can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" he shouted above the rush of the wind. 

"Simple," Tonks said. "Ron Weasley got your letter. Asked his sister who Jane Kirkallen was, right at the supper table. Ginny Weasley wanted to know why. He said your aunt and uncle were having her over for tea. Ginny asked how come the Dursleys were having a Slytherin girl over for tea, and Molly Weasley hit the ceiling." 

Harry felt like he'd just taken a Bludger to the gut. "A … a what?" 

"A Slytherin girl," Tonks said. "So Molly was off in a flash to check on you, and what should she find but that you weren't at home? She called in the Order, sure that you'd been lured, tricked, trapped and disemboweled by now, and we came looking for you." 

"Jane … is in … _Slytherin_?" 

But of course she was. He could place her, now. Her dark ponytail and watchful eyes, at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. Not one of Pansy Parkinson's crowd, but always there, on the fringes. Never saying much. Listening. Taking it all in. 

No wonder she'd said she wouldn't have been welcome at that D.A. meeting! If a Slytherin, _any_ Slytherin, had poked a head in, the entire crowd would have been up in arms, or else so terrified of being found out by Dolores Umbridge that they never would have agreed to Hermione's plan. 

"But she said her mother was killed by Death Eaters," Harry said, as they flew over Magnolia Crescent toward Privet Drive. "How can she be a Slytherin?" 

Tonks didn't answer, and dull heat washed into Harry's face. 

"She lied to me?" 

"Harry, look, I don't know, all right?" But she sounded evasive. 

"You think I was suckered. That's what Hermione's going to say, too, isn't it? That Harry-the-Hero went and ran into some damsel in distress, and of course he had to break both legs rushing to save the damn day." 

"I didn't say anything like that," Tonks said. 

"And you'll probably say that Jane staged the whole thing. That she _knew_ I was Dudley's cousin when she set up this tea date, and made sure to leave her wand in her sweater pocket so I'd find it. Because once I knew she was a witch, I'd _have_ to follow her and talk to her, right? And then she could give me her big sob story, and I'd just eat it up. What then? She'd Stun me, and turn me over to Voldemort's supporters?" 

Tonks winced. He couldn't see it, as she was behind him, but he felt it in the way her fingers clenched on his sides, and heard it in her hissing intake of breath. "Harry, cool down." 

"You know, Tonks, I'm not an idiot, okay? And I'm getting sick of having everybody treat me like I'm a baby. I don't need a nursemaid, I don't need bodyguards. I can handle myself." 

"No argument from me." 

"No argument from you, but you barge in on me like that?" 

"We just want to keep you safe, Harry." 

"Yeah. Right. Terrific. Keep me safe, keep me in the dark. Why not just lock me up in the damned Department of Mysteries? Oh, but wait! That place isn't safe either, is it? How about some vault at Gringotts? Nope, that's no good; they can break in there, too. Hogwarts? Sure, why not Hogwarts, just because three or four different people have damn near killed me there, too … or maybe, here's a thought, how about this … you could all just for God's sake _trust_ me for a change!" 

The broom went into a steep dive, cutting off his tirade. The next thing he knew, they were hovering beside his open bedroom window. Hedwig was there on her perch, preening and doing her best to look lofty and above all the chaos downstairs. 

And raging it was … by the sounds of it, Uncle Vernon was close to blowing his top as he tried to order Moody, Mundungus, and Mrs. Weasley out of his house. Aunt Petunia was shrilly wailing about what the neighbors would think. And Mrs. Weasley was scolding them both about not caring one whit for Harry's well-being. 

"Look, Harry," Tonks said as they dismounted and clambered through the window. "Nobody thinks you're a baby, all right? You've proved yourself over and over again." 

"Save it, Tonks," he snapped. He felt bad immediately, but it was out. 

Tonks just shrugged. "Okay." 

Her casual acceptance of his anger stung him. He wanted to apologize. But he was too annoyed to bother, and stormed downstairs almost looking forward to the fight he knew he was about to have. 

To be continued in Chapter Four: Chaos and Complications ... coming Friday, October 1st, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	4. Chaos and Complications

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Four: Chaos and Complications   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously:   
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts   
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date   
Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress

* * *

It was as bad as he'd feared, walking into it. Mrs. Weasley and Aunt Petunia were nose to nose, shouting. 

"—better care of him!" Molly Weasley cried. "That you could be his own flesh and blood, and live with him for all these years, and not know what a special, important boy he is –" 

"—don't know who you think you are coming into _my_ home and criticizing how I handle _my_ family!" Aunt Petunia retorted, her face so red it looked like she might burst into flames at any second. "And if those wild orangutans of _yours_ are any example, I hardly see how you're in any position to –" 

"—been through so much, and a little kindness from his own kin shouldn't be too much to –" 

"—expect you to know anything about decent people –" 

"—did you call my children?" 

"—wanted to take him in the first place, and how's he repaid us, the ungrateful –" 

They were both so loud that they could barely hear each other. All things considered, that was probably for the best. 

Uncle Vernon was blustering, acting like he knew he should intervene but didn't dare get between them for fear of having them both turn their female wrath squarely upon him. 

Mad-Eye Moody's eye revolved as Harry came in, as if it had been tracking his progress through the house. He nodded in brusque satisfaction. 

Mundungus Fletcher seemed to be taking advantage of the distraction to rummage through a sideboard, though when he went to pocket something, Tonks strode hastily to him – managing to stumble over only a single footstool on the way – and smacked the back of his hand smartly with her wand. 

Mrs. Weasley saw Harry and broke off her tirade, rushing across the room to sweep him into a hug. She smelled of baking, of apples and cinnamon and crumbly golden crust. No sooner had she hugged him than she held him at arm's length and gave him a shake. 

"Harry, dear … oh, Harry, what were you thinking?" 

"What have you told them?" he asked urgently, as it flashed into his mind that if Mrs. Weasley had mentioned Jane's name, this would go from bad to disastrous. 

"Thank goodness you're all right," she said, patting him all over like she was checking for playground injuries on a little boy. "He is all right, isn't he, Tonks?" 

"Fine and dandy," Tonks said. 

"Here, now," sputtered Uncle Vernon. "I demand to know …" he glanced hastily at Moody. "Ahem … er … I should _like_ to know what all this is about." 

"What this is all about is that we're taking Harry with us," Mrs. Weasley said. "Right now, tonight, someplace where he can be safe." 

"What have you done?" Aunt Petunia nearly shrieked, rounding on him. "What is it this time? What have you brought on us? Where's Dudley? What have you done with Dudley?" 

"Nothing," Harry said. 

"A likely story," Uncle Vernon said. "You've come for the boy, fine. Good. Take him and go." 

"Oh, it's always that, isn't it?" Aunt Petunia huffed. "You people come in here whenever you please, disrupt my home and our lives … you take him away, you bring him back, and we've no say in any of it, have we? When _we_ want him to go, it's 'remember your promise, Petunia!' bellowing out of that awful fiery letter, but when you want to come and fetch him, without a word of explanation, we're just to sit back and say nothing?" 

"What do you care?" Harry asked. "You _want_ me to go. You never wanted me here in the first place, and believe me, I'd rather live anywhere else. What promise did you make, anyway? What did Dumbledore tell you? What could he hold over you that was enough to make you take me in?" 

Moody turned toward Aunt Petunia. His voice was low and had a quality to it like stones grinding together. "Do you really want an explanation? I'd be happy to give you one." 

The red drained from her face, leaving chalk-white. But she was not entirely cowed, even though Uncle Vernon was shaking his head at her and waving his hands in palms-out gestures of negation. 

"I think I have a right to know if my family is in danger," Aunt Petunia said. "If my _son_ is in danger." 

"You can stand there and say that," gasped Mrs. Weasley. "After you let that –" 

"Molly," Tonks muttered warningly. 

"Your boy's in no danger he hasn't brought on himself," Moody said, after sending his eye spinning in a complete rotation. "'Course, that leaves him a lot of leeway, the porky little thug." 

"Now, sir, just you –" began Uncle Vernon. His words cut off as he found himself looking cross-eyed at the tip of Moody's wand, which was leveled half an inch from the end of his nose. "That is … I mean to say …" 

"Harry, dear, let's get your things. I'll help you pack." Mrs. Weasley hustled him out of the room and back upstairs. 

"You didn't tell them about Jane, did you?" Harry asked once they were out of earshot. 

"Good heavens, Harry, I hope you're not sticking up for that girl." 

"Mrs. Weasley, I think … I think everybody's overreacting." 

He might have been able to vent his anger at Tonks, but he couldn't bring himself to yell at Ron's mum. Mrs. Weasley had always been so nice to him, and had given him his first and only glimpses of motherly affection. He knew that she earnestly cared about him, and considered him almost like one of her many sons. Last summer, when she'd been confronting a boggart, the shape-changing specter had even assumed the form of dead Harry while taunting Mrs. Weasley with all of her worst fears. 

"I'm so glad we got here in time. Harry, you _must_ learn to be more careful." 

"I am careful!" 

"I know you are, dear, but none of us would ever forgive ourselves if anything happened to you." 

"Nothing did." 

"That aunt of yours should be more choosy as to who she invites to tea." Mrs. Weasley surveyed Harry's room, then waved her wand at the closet. Clothes began to float through the air toward his trunk, neatly folding themselves as they went. 

"She didn't know," Harry said, hardly believing he was defending Aunt Petunia. "Neither did I." 

"Don't you find it even a little suspicious that of all the people who could have come to tea, it would be a witch? A Slytherin witch?" 

"Wait a minute," Harry said. "I couldn't have been in danger, could I? That spell, the one Dumbledore goes on about all the time, is supposed to protect me, right?" 

"You-Know-Who certainly couldn't have come to tea, if that's what you're saying," Mrs. Weasley said, as Harry's schoolbooks followed his clothes into the trunk. "You're safe from him as long as you're here. From _him_. While you're _here_. If that girl had led you out someplace where the Death-Eaters could have gotten to you …" 

"I didn't even leave with Jane. Dudley left with Jane." 

"But you followed. You went to her. It could have been a trap." 

"Everybody's been listening too much to Professor Moody," Harry grumbled. "I'm all right, you know. She might be okay." 

Mrs. Weasley smiled at him, a sort of "oh, you poor naïve boy" smile. "All we knew, Harry dear, was that you'd had a Slytherin in your house, and then that you'd gone out. We had to assume the worst. These are dark times." 

"You mean that every time I even talk to someone who might be suspicious, you're all going to come charging in here like the cavalry?" 

"We won't need to," she said, and chucked him fondly under the chin. "Because you'll be home and safe with us." 

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but what if I don't want to go?" 

She looked shocked. Then hurt. "Oh. Oh, my. I'm so sorry, Harry dear. I thought you liked visiting us. We …" 

"I didn't mean it that way," he said. "I just … I … never mind. But aren't we going to Grimmauld Place?" 

Her hurt look vanished, to be replaced by something strange that he couldn't quite read. "No, dear. The Burrow." 

"Is that headquarters for the Order now? What happened to Sirius' house? Did Narcissa Malfoy take it over?" 

"I'll let Remus Lupin tell you about that," she said. "It's … well, dear, it's complicated. Now, you're all packed. Do you have the Portkey that Ron sent you? Use that, carry Hedwig, and I'll see to it that your trunk gets there." 

"What about the Dursleys?" 

"Moody and Tonks can handle them." 

"_Did_ you tell them about Jane?" 

"Harry, dear, I do hope you're not trying to protect that girl." 

"But _did_ you?" 

"No. Statutes of Secrecy, you know." 

"You mean, you can't tell Muggles that someone is a wizard?" 

"That's right. Only the Department of Muggle Relations can do that. Well, and it's permissible when it's just talk among relatives, something like that. So, you could tell them." 

"No, thanks," Harry said. 

Downstairs, it had gotten quiet again, and now Harry could hear the clunk of Moody's foot coming down the hall toward his room. He also heard a bang and a tinkle of glass, as Tonks bumped into one of the framed photos of Dudley and knocked it off the wall. 

"Stupid of me," Tonks said, rubbing her shoulder as she came in. "I was expecting he'd call out and warn me, or move to another portrait if I got too close." 

"I sent Fletcher on ahead," Moody said, his eye spinning to take in Harry's room. "The Muggles are hushed up for now. Ready to go, son?" 

"I suppose." 

"Wotcher, Harry, don't get too excited or you'll pop a blood vessel," Tonks said. "Didn't forget the Firebolt, did you? No? Excellent." 

"So we're not going to Grimmauld Place?" Harry asked. "Has the Order vacated it?" 

"Who told you that?" Moody peered at him. 

"No one. I guessed. With Sirius … gone and all. Unless it went to Tonks?" he added hopefully, glancing over at her where she stood poised in the window with her Comet in her hand. 

Tonks shook her head. "Not me, Harry. My mother was disowned long before I was even born. There's no way I'd inherit so much as a Knut from the Black fortune." 

"Who, then? What's going to happen to the house?" 

"It's complicated," Moody said, echoing what Mrs. Weasley had told Harry just a few minutes before. "Come on. Let's get out of here." 

"You first, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said. "Use the Portkey. Alastor and I will be right behind you. And Tonks will be along once she's checked in at the Ministry." 

He felt like there was more he should ask, and press them for answers, but this wasn't the best time or place. Grudgingly, he cradled Hedwig's cage in one arm and then opened the wooden box Ron had sent him. He touched the Portkey. 

There was a sudden hard tug in the vicinity of his midsection, as if he'd been snared by a giant hook and yanked violently forward. His feet flailed in a turbulent nothingness. Before his senses had time to even try and adjust, he was thrust abruptly back into reality with a jolt. Hedwig's cage swung crazily at the end of his arm. 

He was outside the Burrow, and the shape of the house rose against the starry night sky like a teetering wooden gantry. The smells of long grass, wildflowers, and Mrs. Weasley's cooking wafted around him. Many of the windows were aglow, and the moment after Harry hit the ground, the front door slammed open and out rushed Mr. Weasley, with Ron and Ginny hot on his heels. 

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley caught him as he staggered for balance, and handed Hedwig's cage to Ginny. "Got you, steady now, there we are. Molly's just on her way, according to the clock –" 

With a sharp pop, Mrs. Weasley appeared and smoothed her fluffy red-orange curls. Harry's trunk dropped out of thin air and landed beside her. 

Another pop heralded the arrival of Moody, who scowled around at what, to him, must have been the appalling lack of defenses. No stone walls, no wrought-iron fences, no moat, no crocodiles, no sparkling magical wards. Just the Burrow, with gnomes running amok in the back garden. The Burrow, seeming strangely empty even from outside, because Fred and George were gone. 

For a moment, no one said anything. Ron shuffled his feet and threw Harry a tentative, awkward grin. Ginny's look was frank and unapologetic. 

Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands briskly. Moody whirled at the loud sound, wand in hand, and was probably an eyeblink from jinxing somebody before he realized that the loud sound had not been an enemy Apparating into their midst. 

"Well!" she said. "Who's hungry?" 

"Starved," Mr. Weasley said. 

"Where's Mundungus got to?" Mrs. Weasley's nose wrinkled. She hadn't liked having Mundungus Fletcher as a guest even in someone else's home, let alone her own. 

"Sent him to report to Dumbledore," Mr. Weasley replied. 

"Where's Lupin?" Harry asked. 

"Off," Ron said, and jerked his chin skyward. "Full moon." 

"Right." 

As if to underscore the point, a far-away mournful howl drifted to them on the wind. 

"I'll get this inside," Mr. Weasley said, pointing his wand at Harry's trunk. 

"You … um … you can room with me, if you want," Ron said. "Or there's plenty of space, if you'd rather be by yourself. We've got a couple of empty bedrooms." 

Harry looked at Ron. Their last few days of school had been tense, with all of them who'd gone to the Ministry of Magic that horrible night needing time to recover from their injuries and try to wrap their minds around everything they'd seen, and done. Harry, most of all, hadn't wanted to spend time with anybody. He had been too busy grieving for Sirius, and blaming himself for what had happened. For nearly getting his friends killed as well as his godfather. 

It had been better for a little while. On the train, mostly, when the D.A. had taken care of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. But once Harry had gotten back to Privet Drive, with nothing to do but brood and think and remember and regret, he'd noticed his letters getting shorter, and more time passing before he sent each new missive. 

Now, standing here looking at Ron – lanky, freckled Ron, with his red hair and his long, horsy face – Harry wasn't sure how he felt or what he wanted. He could tell what Ron wanted, though. A wistful hope was shining in Ron's eyes, the hope that things could be back to normal now. 

Easy for _him_ to think. Ron had come through it all right, once he'd gotten over his encounter with that creepy green brain-thing. Ron hadn't lost the closest person he had to family. Ron hadn't led that expedition. 

Nothing could ever be back to normal. Harry didn't even know what _normal_ was. Not his life, that was for sure.   
But he relented. "Your room, if you don't mind," he said. 

Ron's grin returned. "Great!" 

Ginny followed them, still lugging Hedwig's cage. Ron's room was near the top of the house, its walls covered with posters of the Chudley Cannons, Ron's favorite Quidditch team. Ron's books were piled on his desk. His broom, a Cleansweep that had carried Gryffindor to victory last year, hung on hooks above the bed. 

Pigwidgeon let out a delighted hooting trill and zoomed in complex figure-8's around their heads. Hedwig clicked her beak and ruffled her feathers, and if Harry could have read her mind, he guessed she'd be wondering what she had done to deserve this. 

"Push off already," Ron said, taking Hedwig's cage from Ginny and setting it on a table by the window. 

"You can't keep shoving me around, Ronald," Ginny said, jutting her chin at him defiantly. "It's only the two of us, now, so no more of that baby-sister-gets-left-out rubbish. I'm Harry's friend, too. Aren't I?" she added, glancing at Harry. 

"Yeah, of course," he said. "Besides, I wanted to talk to you." 

"So there," Ginny said to Ron. 

"What do you know about Jane?" Harry asked. 

"What's there to know?" Ron countered. "She's Slytherin, isn't she?" 

"I wasn't asking you." 

"She's in my year," Ginny said, sitting on the braided rag rug on the floor at the foot of Ron's bed and folding her legs beneath herself in some strange contorted pose. "As Slytherins go, I guess she's not _that_ bad." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked. 

"Well, there's Devonna Stormdark, whose family is just as aristocratic and snobby a bunch of purebloods as the Malfoys. And Tiberius Flint … you remember Marcus Flint, I bet, don't you Harry." 

Harry did, and not fondly either. "Slytherin captain. I think he was held back a year, wasn't he?" 

"See, most of them are what I'd call typical Slytherins. Torra Todd, Nadine Zellis, Mordred Montressor –" 

"With a name like Mordred, what do you expect?" Ron said. 

"They're all horrible," Ginny continued. "Cheating on exams, bullying people, causing trouble. Jane Kirkallen isn't that bad. Comparatively, I mean. She's quiet. Hangs back. Isn't ever right there in the thick of things, but, Harry, she's still always there to watch. Soaking it up like a sponge. There's something in her eyes. And she gets this weird little smile … it'd make your skin crawl." 

"That doesn't sound like the Jane I met. Besides, what is a vicar's daughter doing in Slytherin?" Harry wondered aloud. 

"Forget that," Ron said. "What was a Slytherin doing at your aunt and uncle's house? D'you reckon she really was spying on you, or trying to lure you out where they could get at you?" 

"Don't know," Harry said. "It's not like I had a chance to ask her many questions before your mum and Tonks and Moody charged in like they were storming the beach at Normandy." 

"They were only trying to help," Ginny said stiffly. 

"Yeah. You should have seen Mum," Ron said, his eyes widening at the recollection. "Dad wasn't even home from work yet, and she just snatched up her wand, shouted at us to not dare move, and off she went." 

"What about Moody and Tonks?" Harry asked. "Where were they? Are they staying here?" 

"Nah," Ron said. "They've got some new headquarters, and Mum won't even tell us where it is. Not after what happened. She said that was a plain case of us knowing more than was good for us and nearly getting ourselves killed because of it. Not even Lupin could argue with her, though I don't think he tried very hard." 

"They drop by a lot to visit, though," Ginny said. 

"And Lupin?" 

They looked at each other. 

"That's … complicated," Ginny finally said, when Ron showed no signs of speaking up. 

"Damn it!" Harry slammed his fist on the floor. Hedwig twitched and rustled. Pig, who had come to roost perched on the windowsill, sprang into the air again in a twittering flurry of feathers. "I keep getting that. It's complicated. What's complicated? I ask about Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and no one will tell me because it's complicated. I ask about Lupin, it's complicated. I'm _not_ going to be left out!" 

"Take it easy, Harry," Ron said. "What Ginny means is that we don't know, either. All they tell us is that same thing: it's complicated." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Your guess is as good as ours," Ginny said. "McGonnagall's been by, though." 

"What about Snape?" Harry asked. 

Ron made a face. "No, and a good thing, too. Imagine, Snape in our own house. I'd never sleep well again." 

"And Dumbledore?" 

"A few times," Ginny said, and both she and Ron had wary, treading-on-thin-ice looks. "He … he asks about you." 

"Does he." Harry said it flatly, not a question. 

"Yeah," Ron said. "Have we heard from you, how are you doing, any more strange dreams, scar been hurting –" 

Ginny socked him in the side. "Ron!" 

"What?" 

"So," Harry said. "That figures, doesn't it? I thought as much." 

"What?" Ron said again. "Hey, Harry, come on. Don't get like that." 

"Like what?" 

"Like … like you're mad at Dumbledore. He only –" 

"Ron," Harry said, raising a hand with the palm out like a traffic cop, "if you tell me that Dumbledore 'only wants to help,' or 'only wants what is best' for me, I'm going to black your eye for you, so help me." 

Ron, absolutely thunderstruck, was silent and goggle-eyed. 

"But Harry –" Ginny tried bravely. 

"You, too, Ginny. Girl or no girl." 

"Okay, Harry," she said. 

"And what have you been telling Dumbledore about me?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised. 

"Nothing," Ron said. "Couldn't, could we? You haven't been telling us anything to start with." 

"Maybe there's a reason for that, d'you think? Maybe because I knew that anything I told you would go straight to Dumbledore. You couldn't wait to run and tattle." 

"Harry!" Ginny shot to her feet. "That's not fair!" 

"Isn't it? The way you ran and tattled to your mother about Jane?" 

"I did no such thing! Ron asked me at the _dinner_ table, and Mum happened to be there." 

"What are you so mad at us for?" Ron asked, also on his feet. "We thought we were helping, all right?" 

"I'm sick of people keeping me in the dark and calling it 'helping' me," Harry said. He was up, too, and didn't remember rising, but he was shaking in fury. "All I am to Dumbledore anymore is his … his … Voldemort alarm. He doesn't care about me. Only about my scar, and my dreams, and what they can tell him about what Voldemort's up to. I'm surprised he even wanted me to learn Occlumency. It'd lose him his advance warning system. That's probably the _real_ reason he had Snape teach me. He would have _known_ that Snape and I couldn't get along and I wouldn't learn anything, but it'd _look_ like Dumbledore was doing something about it. When really, he was just making sure the pathway stayed open." 

"That's about enough, Harry!" Ron shouted. "You can't talk about Dumbledore that way!" 

"I can talk about him any way I like. And why not? It's not as if I can talk _to_ him anymore, and he doesn't need to talk to me when he's got his network of little spies who'll run right to him the minute I say anything about a weird dream, or a twinge in my scar." 

A sudden sharp, cracking pain exploded across his face. At first, as he reeled back and sat down heavily on Ron's bed, he thought that it _was_ his scar, that even as he'd been talking about it, his scar had unleashed a burst of Voldemort's violent energy. But when his head stopped spinning, he realized it was his cheek, not his forehead, that hurt. It stung like fire, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in Ron's mirror, he saw a vivid scarlet handprint standing out against his skin. 

"You … you slapped me," he said to Ginny, utterly astounded. 

"You deserved it. You've had it coming for a while now." She stood over him with her fists on her hips and her red hair tumbling around her face. Her eyes were bright, and her lips were pulled back from small, even white teeth in a clenched-jaw snarl. 

She looked … scary. Beautiful and scary. 

"I –" he said. 

"We _know_ you're angry. We know you're upset at the way you think people have been treating you. But, damn it, Harry, there's too much going on for you to be … to be pulling this sort of temperamental wounded-hero shit." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron gaping at his sister. Harry was gaping, too. He reckoned that if Fred or George had ever seen her like this, they wouldn't have pulled half so many of their pranks on their little sister. The look in her eye might have daunted a dragon. 

Harry had no idea what might have come out of his mouth next. He was saved, not quite literally, by the bell. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed bedtime. 

"So," Ginny said. 

"Yeah?" Harry ventured. 

"Are you done?" 

"Cor, I would be," Ron breathed. 

"I'm done," Harry said. 

"Good." She turned and marched from the room, sweeping her hair from her face with the backs of her hands.   
The door slammed shut in her wake, leaving Harry to look at Ron, the both of them with jaws hanging. 

"I think I liked her better when she was too shy to talk to me," Harry said. 

Ron snorted laughter. "You can say that again. Some birthday, eh?" 

They got ready for bed. Harry didn't think sleep would come easily to him, but he felt exhausted, his emotions having been yanked in so many directions that evening that they were all stretched out and rubbery. He dropped off almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and nothing, not even Ron's snores, woke him before the morning sunlight came streaming through the shutters. 

"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley's call drifted up the stairs. "Boys, breakfast!" 

They went down to the kitchen, which, like the rest of the Burrow, seemed echoingly empty with so few Weasleys to fill it. Even Moody had departed, so it was only Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. As if to compensate for the extra chairs, an amazing abundance of food heaped the table. 

It was almost as generous a spread as the traditional welcoming feast held at the start of each Hogwarts year. Except for the large wooden bowl of dead ferrets sitting at the end of the table. They hadn't been cooked or even skinned. Limp heads, tails, and little cunning ferret feet dangled over the rim of the bowl. 

"Oh, for pity's sake!" cried Mrs. Weasley. "Ginny, dear, would you take those out to Buckbeak?" 

"Buckbeak's here?" Harry rose almost as soon as he'd sat down. "Where?" 

The last he'd seen Buckbeak, the hippogriff had been staying at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, in the suite of rooms that had once belonged to Sirius Black's mother. He hadn't even thought to wonder about Buckbeak's fate. 

"Out back," Ron said. "Here, Mum, we'll do it. I'll show you, Harry." 

Taking the bowl of dead ferrets, Ron led the way into the Burrow's back yard. A trio of cackling gnomes erupted from beneath the rickety porch and scampered for cover in the overgrown garden. A shed had been put up between two gnarled trees, and as Harry and Ron crossed the uneven, tufted lawn, a stately shape emerged into a small fenced paddock. 

Morning light gleamed on Buckbeak's steely-grey coat and feathers, and turned the wicked beak and sharp talons into gilded blades. A steady golden gaze pinned them. Ron gulped, and bowed forward over the bowl. Harry bowed as well, deeply. 

Buckbeak made a sound somewhere between a whinny and a croon, and slowly, majestically lowered his head. One taloned foreleg scratched at the earth. Harry saw that there was a collar around Buckbeak's neck, and a chain connected it to a ringbolt set into the top of a stout oak post. 

"Hi, Buckbeak," he said, his heart sinking a little with sorrow for the proud creature brought so low. 

There had been less freedom for Buckbeak than there had for Sirius in the two years since the pair of them had escaped death – or worse – at Hogwarts. 

For a while, the two fugitives had been able to get away from England. Harry had never been sure exactly where, but Sirius' messages had been delivered by birds with fabulous plumage instead of owls. He had imagined the two of them relaxing on some warm beach, Sirius eating fruit plucked from the jungle and drinking coconut milk straight from the shell while Buckbeak waded in clear turquoise rippling waves to snatch fish from the shallows of a tropical lagoon. 

But then, because of Harry and his troublesome scar, Sirius had come back. He'd brought Buckbeak with him, and they had lived in the Black family mansion. Prisoners there as much as Sirius had been in Azkaban. 

He approached Buckbeak, taking a ferret from the bowl. The hippogriff regarded this offering, then nipped it sharply with his beak. Buckbeak tossed the ferret into the air, caught it, and worked it down his gullet in a series of convulsive jerks, swallowing it whole. The chain jangled. The noise of it hurt Harry's heart as much as his ears, and he undid the collar. Buckbeak shook all over, and preened at his feathers where they'd been flattened down. 

"Hey," Ron said, holding up a pure white ferret. "Remember Malfoy?" 

Despite his dark mood, Harry snickered. The man they'd thought was Mad-Eye Moody had once transformed Harry's nemesis Draco Malfoy into an albino ferret, and bounced him through the halls of Hogwarts before Professor McGonnagall had intervened. 

There was something vaguely satisfying about seeing Buckbeak devour that ferret. It became more ghoulish as Ron named each of the subsequent corpses. "Crabbe … Goyle …this one can be Pansy Parkinson, the cow, Hermione would approve …" 

"Ron …" Harry said, feeling slightly sick. He hadn't eaten more than a bite of toast before coming out here, and now even that was starting to seem like a mistake. 

"And Snape!" Ron said with malicious glee, holding up a ferret with a lank black pelt and a particularly long, pointy nose. 

As he was about to toss that one, Buckbeak suddenly lost all interest in the ferrets. The hippogriff's head snapped around, eyes keen and alert, feathers bristling. 

Harry instinctively reached for his wand. A moment later, he heard the crunching, stumbling footsteps of someone blundering through the brush and tall grass. He heard a low, pained groan. Then the heavy thud of someone falling. 

"What was that?" Ron's face had gone curd-white, his freckles standing out like chicken pox. 

"I don't know." Harry moved cautiously in the direction from which the sounds had come. He could hear harsh, labored breathing. "What's back there?" 

Ron set down the nearly empty bowl and got out his own wand. "Nothing much, just hills and meadow." 

They crept closer, out of sight of the Burrow now except for its highest peaked roof and crazily tilting chimneys. Harry pushed brambly branches out of the way, wincing as thorns sliced into the heel of his hand. 

He looked down into a gully, and his breath lodged in his throat. Beside him, Ron sucked in a strangled gasp. 

Two men were in the gully. One, dressed all in black and holding a silver-edged axe aloft, was Macnair, former executioner for the Department of the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. His eyes were alight with a murderous passion. 

The other, in ragged grey-brown robes that hung in tatters around his pale, thin, wasted body, was Remus Lupin. 

To be continued in Chapter Five: Wolfsbane and Moonflower ... coming Friday, October 8th, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	5. Wolfsbane and Moonflower

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Five: Wolfsbane and Moonflower   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously:   
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts   
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date   
Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress   
Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications

* * *

"And now, werewolf," Macnair said, lips skinning back in a terrible smile. "Now, at last, the hunt is over. Now, you're mine." 

Lupin raised his head. His prematurely greying hair was tangled, matted with sweat. Coarse stubble darkened his gaunt cheeks. He was filthy, his hands and fingernails caked with grime. As he struggled to rise, perhaps not wanting to die cowering at his enemy's feet, Harry saw a hideous diagonal gash crossing his chest. Blood seeped from it in a sluggish flow, and there was an ivory gleam that might have been exposed ribs shining through. 

Other cuts, scrapes, and bruises marred Lupin's skin but they seemed to be healing even as Harry looked on. The diagonal gash was not closing. 

Silver. The axe's edge was _real_ silver, not merely steel polished to a silvery sheen. It was caked with something gummy and dark green, as if Macnair had been using it to hew through the underbrush in his pursuit of his prey. 

"_Stupefy_!" Harry shouted. 

"_Expelliarmus_!" Ron shouted beside him. 

A red blast shot from the end of Harry's wand and struck Macnair in the belly and doubled him over. At the same instant, the executioner's axe leaped from his hands. It whickered in a deadly cartwheel … up … up … and then began to fall. 

"Lupin!" Harry cried, seeing that the axe's trajectory would bring it down right where Lupin was kneeling. 

He charged through the thorns, not caring that they tore at his clothes and flesh. He threw himself full against Lupin, and though Lupin was a grown man and Harry a gangly sixteen, the tackle bowled Lupin over as if he weighed no more than a box kite. 

They rolled through the grass just as the axe came down – _whunk!_ – and its blade cleaved through the cuff of Harry's pants and buried itself four inches deep in the ground. 

"_Stupefy_!" Another red blast, this one from Ron's wand, made Macnair reel backward and collapse. 

"Huh … Harry?" 

"It's all right, Professor." Harry yanked off his own shirt, folded it, and pressed the makeshift pad to Lupin's chest to stop the flow of blood. 

The title made Lupin smile wanly. "I haven't been a professor for some time now, you know," he said. 

"How'd you run across him?" Ron asked, approaching the motionless Macnair with the sort of tense caution Harry had seen people use in scary movies, when they just _knew_ in their guts that the monster or villain was only shamming, and would spring up in renewed attack any second. 

Macnair, though, didn't look to be shamming. His eyes were half-open and glazed, staring up at the bright blue morning sky. He was nearly as scrawny and unkempt as was Lupin, the pair of them looking like they were shipwreck survivors. There was a wand thrust through his belt, and Harry took it and snapped it over his knee like a stick of kindling wood. 

"He's been in hiding. Slipped away somehow when the other Death Eaters were captured in the Department of Mysteries," Lupin said, hissing as he waved Harry away, lifted the wadded-up shirt, and examined the bloody gash across his chest. "It's unhinged him." 

"I doubt he was all that tightly hinged to begin with," Ron said. 

"Pettigrew told them all about you, didn't he?" Harry asked, feeling an intense surge of dislike for the man who had been his father's friend, his parents' betrayer, and Ron's longtime pet. 

"He could have found out from Peter, yes," Lupin said. He refolded the pad and used the largest scrap of his robes to bind it across the wound. "Or from any number of other sources. My secret is hardly a secret anymore. Ask Rita Skeeter." 

"But how'd he find you _here_?" Ron wanted to know. "Close to my home?" 

"That, I don't know. It was no chance encounter, though, I can tell you that much." 

"No, it wouldn't be," Harry said, looking at the axe. "This is real silver. He was hunting for you." 

Wearily, Lupin nodded. "Perhaps on his own, perhaps on Voldemort's orders. And he found me." 

"Don't suppose you bit him?" Ron asked, almost hopefully. 

Lupin went ashen, appalled. "You don't know what you're saying, Ron. If I had, think of the implications. Not only would I have at long last committed the one unforgivable sin that, as a werewolf, I have thus far avoided. But to deliver that kind of power – for it is a power, even as it is a curse – to someone like Macnair?" 

"What do we do with him, then?" Harry asked. "Turn him over to the Aurors?" 

"Too right," Ron said. "And the sooner the better. Though I reckon the Ministry will just stick him in Azkaban with the others, and you know sooner or later, they're going to escape." 

"You don't sound as though you have much faith in the Ministry, Ron," Lupin observed. 

He got laboriously to his feet, seemingly not caring at all that he was next to naked, and went to Macnair to divest the stunned Death Eater of his voluminous black cloak. The cloak was dirty, torn, and smelly, but it was in far better condition than the rags of Lupin's robe. 

"Should I have?" Ron scoffed. "After everything Cornelius Fudge has done? He may have Percy eating out of his hand, but not me. A lot of this could have been prevented if he wasn't such a coward, that one." 

"How badly are you hurt?" Harry asked, noting the way Lupin's hands shook as he fastened the cloak. "Do you need to go to St. Mungo's?" 

At the mention of the hospital, Lupin shook his head. "It's not a bad cut, not deep. I'll mend. What I could use is food, and rest." 

"Shall I go and fetch my dad?" Ron asked. "And maybe Moody's back, or Tonks." 

"Let's secure him first," Lupin said. 

They conjured ropes to bind Macnair, and then used a levitation spell to float his body along after them. It was eerily reminiscent of a night a few years ago, when Snape had gotten much the same treatment after being knocked unconscious in the Shrieking Shack. Macnair drifted along like a large man-shaped helium balloon, head lolling. Ron guided him, while Harry helped Lupin. 

"I'm fine, really," Lupin said, but a different truth was in his pallor, and in the way the makeshift bandage was soaked through with blood that wouldn't clot. 

"Here." Harry hooked Lupin's arm over his shoulders, and Lupin protested no further. 

"It's good to see you, Harry," he said as they picked their way carefully through the thorns and back toward the Burrow. "I didn't know if you'd come or not." 

"I didn't have much choice," Harry said sourly. Realizing that Lupin would not have heard, being away from the others on the night of the full moon, he related the story of Dudley's tea date, and Jane, and the sudden interruption by Tonks and Moody. 

Lupin frowned. "I'm sorry they did that. It perhaps could have been handled better, but you know how on-edge everyone's been." 

"I just don't think she meant me any harm," Harry said. "And even if she did, I can take care of myself. I don't need Aurors popping in whenever a Slytherin so much as talks to me." 

Behind him, Ron mumbled, and Harry glanced back over his shoulder. 

"What, Ron?" 

"Nothing." 

"Jane Kirkallen," Lupin mused. "Dark-haired girl? A year behind you two?" 

"That's her," Harry said. 

"I remember her from my lessons. She turned in a very good essay on counter-curses, and asked quite a few questions about Death Eaters." 

"She told me that Death Eaters killed her mother," Harry said. "But Tonks thinks it might have been an act." 

"'Course it was," Ron said. "She's Slytherin, isn't she? Trying to get you to trust her, and then, wham!" 

"You don't know that. You don't know _her_!" 

"Neither do you," Ron shot back. "Tell him, Professor." 

Lupin took a long, shuddery gasp of air. "Can we stop for a moment, Harry? Thank you. I … I need to … catch my breath." 

Harry lowered him onto a rock, and Lupin hunched forward over his knees, head down. Harry and Ron exchanged a worried look that went far past their disagreement about Jane. 

"You go on ahead, Ron," Harry said. "Bring help. I'll keep an eye on them." 

Ron nodded, and set off at a trot. The Burrow was within sight now, and the vivid red hair of Mrs. Weasley and Ginny could be seen in the back yard, where they appeared to be hanging out the wash. 

Lupin's hand found Harry's and gripped it with a strength that was, under the circumstances, surprising. "Harry … I am neither your father nor your godfather, and I do not wish to presume to give advice out of turn …" 

"Why not? Everyone else does." 

"That's precisely why not." 

"You've never turned me wrong before," Harry said. "You've always been honest with me." 

"Have I? Eventually, I suppose. I've never lied to you, if that's what you mean, but, Harry, I wasn't always immediately forthcoming with the truth." 

"Sure. I understand that." He tried to sound light, but it was hard with a fine patter of blood-drops now falling from the sodden bandage to stain the ground between Lupin's feet. "Why would you come right out and tell me all your secrets?" 

"There are too many people keeping things from you," Lupin said. "Not out of malice, don't get that idea. They want to protect you, spare you from pain." 

"I'm not a child," Harry said, his temper beginning to flare. 

"I know. Believe me, I know. You left childhood behind a long time ago." Lupin coughed, and it was a deep, wet cough that expelled a mist of red from his lips. 

"You _did_ lie to me. You said it wasn't that bad!" 

"I was lying to myself, I think," Lupin said. "But it is _not_ fatal. I promise you that. I will be all right once I've had some time to heal. In the meanwhile, Harry, there are some things you should know. Things that the others won't tell you, either because they feel it isn't their place, or because, with the best of intentions, they don't want to add to your already considerable burdens." 

"What things?" 

"It's complicated, so you'll have to bear with me –" 

"This has to do with Sirius, doesn't it? Every time I've asked anyone about him, or about his house, they tell me it's complicated." 

"Sirius left everything to you." 

"He … he what?" 

"In his will, which he updated not three weeks before … well, before … he named you his heir. The house at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the Black family fortune, all of it. He was the last, and in the absence of any children of his own, Sirius left it to you." 

Harry sat numbly, thinking of the brooding hallways and dark rooms of the Black mansion. Of Kreacher, the insane old house elf whose ancestors' heads had been mounted on plaques on the wall. Of the portrait of Sirius' mother, that vile-tempered harridan. Of the elaborate tapestry depicting the Black family tree. 

"But I'm not blood kin," he said at last. "It … shouldn't it go to a relative? I mean, I wouldn't want to see it go to Narcissa Malfoy, or Bellatrix Lestrange, but … but what about Tonks? It should be hers. I don't _need_ a fortune. My parents left me plenty." 

"I haven't told you the complicated part yet, Harry," Lupin said. 

That was when, with a roar that was more bestial than human, Macnair revived and burst out of his bonds. He was in such a frenzy that his eyes rolled and foamy spit bubbled at the corners of his mouth. 

For a moment Harry thought that Lupin must have bitten him after all, and that this was the werewolf affliction taking hold. Then he saw that Macnair's sleeve had ridden up. On the fleshy inside of his left forearm, the Dark Mark pulsed red-black-red-black-red, burning like a brand. 

"Ahhh! It burns! My Lord, have mercy!" screamed Macnair. The broken bits of rope fell away from him like a shed cocoon. "I will! I will finish it now!" 

They had left the axe behind, and broken his wand, but none of them had thought to search him for other weapons. A knife glittered wickedly in his hand. He threw. 

Lupin shoved Harry aside. The blade spun between them and stuck, quivering, in the bole of a tree. But Macnair was far from finished. He drew a second knife from a sheath in the top of his high black boot, and this knife was no throwing dagger. It was nearly a bayonet, long and straight and razor-sharp. 

Macnair charged, slashing and stabbing with the furious rage of a berserker. The tip tore through the black cloak that Lupin now wore, and bit deep into Lupin's shoulder. Fresh blood poured out. 

"No!" Harry jabbed with his wand. "_Expelliarmus_!" 

The knife jumped from Macnair's grasp. Undeterred, the crazed executioner drove his fist into Lupin's face. Lupin's head rocked back, and then he sank to his knees. Macnair turned toward Harry. 

"Thissss," he said, drawing it out into a hiss, "will be an unexpected pleasure!" 

He was amazingly fast, and before Harry could stun him, had rushed up and swung his arm and placed the livid red-black weal of the Dark Mark full against Harry's cheek. A blast of fiery agony slammed through Harry's head, as if someone had set off dynamite inside his skull. 

Harry was flat on his back without knowing how he got there, aware only that he hurt all over and each breath was like inhaling slivers of glass. He saw Macnair towering over him, holding a wand – Harry's own wand. Nearby, Lupin struggled to rise, but would be too late to help. 

"_Avada_ –" began Macnair. 

A screech shattered the morning into jagged shards. A flapping shadow descended on Macnair in a storm of feathers, talons and hooves. 

It was Buckbeak, in a berserker fury of his own. The hippogriff screeched again. His head darted forward, beak snapping. Macnair flung up a defensive hand, and both he and Harry stared in disbelief as the sharp edges of the beak scissored off every finger but the thumb. 

Buckbeak reared up, pawed the air, and came down hard. His talons raked Macnair from collarbones to belt, opening him in long parallel slashes. Blood flew everywhere in a crimson spray. 

Macnair uttered a choked, gargling cry. He dropped Harry's wand and tottered backward, groping with one good and one ruined hand to try and hold in the bulging, glistening organs. 

Tossing his head now, almost prancing, Buckbeak executed a graceful pirouette. The bird-legs came down, the mismatched body pivoted on them, and the powerful equine rear legs pistoned out in a terrific kick that caught Macnair dead center and sent him flying. 

The Death Eater hit the ground with an awful splat. His good hand rose, clutched feebly at nothing, and then fell limp at his side. 

Slowly, not quite able to believe what he'd just witnessed, Harry got up. His head pounded with a cyclic, throbbing ache not in time with his heartbeat. His stomach churned and his throat hitched and he locked his jaws against throwing up. 

Buckbeak snorted and flipped his horse's tail. He looked at Harry, great golden eyes both regal and serene, and inclined his body in a bow. 

Unsteadily, Harry returned the bow. He lost his balance, and would have fallen had Buckbeak not moved swiftly up to him. Harry leaned against the hippogriff's warm, downy side. Buckbeak made a low twittering noise and bumped Harry affectionately with his head. 

"Are … are you hurt?" Lupin asked. 

"I don't think so," Harry said after a pause in which he evaluated the pounding in his head and decided it was diminishing. His cheek stung, and he felt it, afraid he'd find the Dark Mark imprinted there like some sort of weird tattoo, but the skin seemed ordinary. "What about you?" 

Lupin shrugged the cloak off his shoulder, and showed Harry that the knife wound, not having been caused by a silver weapon, was already closed into a fading pink line. "Macnair?" 

"Dead," Harry said. There was no doubt in his mind. Macnair was gutted like a fish. "Buckbeak killed him." 

Just then, a stampede of Weasleys arrived on the scene. Mrs. Weasley took one look at the gory extent of what had happened, uttered a high-pitched cry, and fainted. Ron and Ginny turned green. Mr. Weasley held onto his composure, and moments later, the distinctive whipcrack noise heralded Moody's appearance. 

Harry was only too glad to let them take over. He was worried about Lupin. The exertion had opened his wound more, and the blood was flowing fast. 

"Not to fret," Moody said, crouching beside the stricken werewolf. "I've sent Tonks for help. There's a healer down to St. Mungo's that we've recruited. Nothing like a trial by fire." 

"He's very good," Mr. Weasley added. "Fixed me right up last year, do you remember?" 

"Dad," Ron said, "it's not that quack who wanted to use Muggle remedies, is it?" 

Ginny had recovered enough to attempt to calm Buckbeak, and Harry and Ron helped her get Mrs. Weasley draped over the hippogriff's back. 

"What about Macnair?" Harry asked. "We shouldn't just leave him there." 

"I'll keep an eye on him," Moody said. "What's left of him, that is." 

The rest of them made an awkward procession back to the house, with Harry and Mr. Weasley practically carrying Lupin slung between them, Ginny leading the way holding Buckbeak's collar, and Ron bringing up the rear with his wand out and his eyes as round and paranoid as Moody's own. 

"Poor Molly," panted Mr. Weasley. "She's never been much of a one for the sight of blood. I don't mind telling you, of everything the boys invented, those Nosebleed Nougats of theirs almost put her right over the edge." 

Luckily, the Burrow wasn't far. Harry and Mr. Weasley lowered Lupin into a large wooden chair in the kitchen. Lupin slumped back, his upper teeth – which seemed longer and sharper than normal, Harry observed with some unease – digging into his lower lip. 

"I wonder, Arthur," Lupin said in a thin, strained voice, "whether Molly might have any essence of moonflower in the cupboard?" 

"Um … not sure," Mr. Weasley said. 

"She does, Dad," Ginny said promptly. "I know right where it's kept." 

"What's essence of moonflower?" Harry asked as Ginny dashed off. 

"Among other things," Lupin said, "it's good for countering extract of wolfsbane." 

"Wolfsbane!" Ron cried. "You mean there was wolfsbane extract on that axe? But … but that's poison to a werewolf!" 

Lupin's grin was a toothy, humorless rictus. "Well, he _was_ trying to kill me, Ron." 

Ginny returned with a small brown bottle. The label was bordered in drawings of flowers and vines around a silhouette of a witch stirring a cauldron. It read: Hecate Hyacinth's Essence of Moonflower. "Here it is, Professor Lupin." 

"Again with … the professor thing," Lupin said. "Thank you, Ginny." 

He reached for the bottle, but his hands were still so weak and shaky that Ginny instinctively held it back. 

"Maybe I should do it?" she asked. 

Nodding, Lupin opened the cloak and peeled away the wet red rag of bandage. The gash across his chest was not as gruesome-looking in the homey kitchen light of the Weasley house as it had been in stark sunshine, but it was somehow all the worse for the homey setting. 

Ron swallowed thickly. "Think I'll … see … uh … how Moody's doing." 

Harry moved forward, meaning to help. But Ginny, with nerves of pure steel, gestured him back. She uncorked the bottle. Harry got a whiff of something that smelled like rainwater and a cool forest night. 

Lupin inhaled deeply. As his chest rose, the lips of the wound parted. Now Harry could see places where the blood was mixed with streaks of some mossy dark-green substance. Extract of wolfsbane. In smaller, diluted doses, and combined with other ingredients, wolfsbane would go into the potion that Snape brewed for Lupin to keep him from fully succumbing to the savagery of the werewolf. As it was, raw, it would kill him. 

"Steady now, Ginny, there's a girl," Mr. Weasley said nervously. 

Ginny squeezed up a quantity of liquid into a glass dropper, and, with a cool aplomb that Harry envied, applied it directly into the wound. The essence of moonflower was thick and syrupy, silvery-blue. Wherever it contacted the dark green of the wolfsbane, the two reacted in a seething fizz of white bubbles. Lupin gritted his teeth and bore down hard on Harry's hand. 

"You didn't mention the wolfsbane before," Harry said accusingly. "You said you'd be fine!" 

"And … and I shall." 

"I don't want to lose you, too! First my parents, then Sirius –" 

"Harry, Harry. You'll always have friends in the Order, and, dare I say, in this household –" 

"Absolutely," Ron and Mr. Weasley said together. 

"—but I promise you, I have no intention of leaving." Lupin's color was already much improved, though he was still too pale, paler than usual. 

Tonks arrived, wearing a St. Mungo's candystriper's uniform, her hair in bouncy ink-black curls and her face all apple-cheeked, fresh, and innocent. She had a Healer with her. Harry recognized him as Augustus Pye, the very one who had gotten together with Mr. Weasley to experiment with Muggle "stitches" when Mr. Weasley had been bitten by Voldemort's snake. 

"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can we, Remus?" Tonks chucked Lupin under the chin. Her tone was carefree and teasing, but there was something else, a deeper concern, in her eyes. 

Ginny peered closely at Tonks, then turned away to re-cork the essence of moonflower, with a small, secretive smile playing about her mouth. It was that sly, knowing look that girls got, but this time, Harry thought he might have an idea of what it meant. 

"Unlike some people, Nymphadora, I don't go looking for trouble," Lupin said. 

"I'll let you get away with calling me Nymphadora _this_ time because you're hurt," Tonks said. "_This_ time. Next time, Remus, we're going to have words." 

"I'll look forward to it. Nymphadora." 

"That's enough," Pye said. "Let me have a look at my patient, will you?" 

"No Muggle rubbish," Mrs. Weasley said warningly. 

With his forefinger, Pye made an X over his heart. "I swear it. Now, what's been done? Ah, an axe wound. Wolfsbane? Treated with moonflower essence, yes, good, very good." 

"Will he be all right?" Ginny asked. 

"I should think so, but I could use some room." 

Mrs. Weasley took this as a hint to shoo the rest of them out. Harry, Ginny and Ron went into the backyard, where they found Buckbeak with his beak contentedly buried in the bowl of dead ferrets. 

"Good thing you unchained him," Ron said. "Probably saved your life, and Lupin's, too." 

"But he did kill that man," Ginny said. 

"Poetic justice," Harry said. "Macnair was itching to behead Buckbeak years ago, when Malfoy brought that trumped-up 'dangerous creature' charge against him." 

"Ironic, isn't it?" Ron mused. "Now that he _is_ a dangerous creature and all. What I wonder is how we're going to smooth this one over. Having a rogue Death Eater killed on our property isn't going to look so good." 

"Why not?" Harry asked. "Aren't they all wanted by the Ministry, anyway?" 

"Well, yeah," Ron said. "But so's Buckbeak, remember. And there's those in the Ministry who are no fans of werewolves, either." 

"Who's going to tell the Ministry?" shrugged Ginny. "Moody doesn't necessarily have to report it." 

They sat in a row on one of the splintery old picnic tables behind the Burrow, swinging their feet and watching Buckbeak work his way through the dead ferrets. It occurred to Harry that he and Ron hadn't gotten much in the way of breakfast, but the combination of Buckbeak's indelicate eating habits and the memory of Macnair's grisly death did not do much for his appetite. 

He changed the subject. "So, hey, how long has this been going on with Lupin and Tonks?" 

Ron looked blank. "What?" 

Ginny giggled. "We don't know for certain that there _is_ anything going on," she said. "Oh, Tonks fancies him like mad, I'd bet anything on it. And I'm pretty sure he fancies her, too. But you know Lupin. He's not about to _say_ so." 

"Lupin and Tonks?" Ron's forehead furrowed as he raised his eyebrows dubiously. "What gives you that idea?" 

"I thought it was obvious," Harry said. "Why wouldn't Lupin say so?" 

For all that she was a year younger, Ginny rolled her eyes in worldly-wise exasperation. "She's half his age, for starters. And he's got no money, no job, no prospects. _And_, lest we forget, the man is a werewolf." 

"So?" Harry glimpsed what she was driving at, but was feeling a trifle belligerent. 

"So," Ginny said, "those are all some fairly strong reasons why he can't have a girlfriend." 

"Lupin and Tonks?" Ron said again. "Tonks … and _Lupin_?" 

"I don't think she minds he's a werewolf," Harry said. 

"Not as a friend, no," Ginny said. "But it'd be different if they were …" A rosy blush pinked her cheeks. "You know … intimate." 

"What do you mean?" Harry squinted at her. "You don't mean …" 

Rubbing her temples, Ginny muttered, "Where is Hermione when you need her? Look, Harry … you know about werewolves. You know it's a contagious condition." 

"He's not going to _bite_ her, Ginny." 

"No … but … well, it's in the saliva, isn't it?" 

Now Harry and Ron both looked blank. 

Ginny rubbed her temples harder. "Sixteen, and you _still_ don't know anything about kissing?" 

"I know about kissing," Harry said, nettled. Not _much_, it was true; his experiences with Cho Chang had been limited. 

"Me, too," Ron said defiantly, as if daring Ginny to contradict him. "Lots." 

"I'm not talking about peck-on-the-cheek kissing," she said. "I'm talking about _real_ kissing. With open mouths and all." 

"Oh!" Harry said as the light suddenly dawned. He elbowed Ron. "Like Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies at the Yule Ball, remember?" 

Ron scowled. "I remember, all right. They were like Siamese twins joined at the tongue." 

"Exactly!" Ginny cried, slapping her leg. "_That's_ what I'm talking about." 

"Huh?" Harry and Ron said together. 

She blew out a frustrated puff of air. "Think about it. If Lupin kissed anyone like that, him being a werewolf and all, and the curse of the werewolf is carried in the saliva …" 

"Gross," Ron said. "Besides, Fleur Delacour was from Beauxbatons, and part veela. Real people don't kiss like that." 

Ginny groaned and dropped her head into her hands. "You don't know anything, do you, Ron? Yes, real people do. Mum and Dad do." 

"Gross!" Ron repeated, louder this time, and drew away from Ginny in nose-wrinkling disgust. "They do not! They're our _parents_. They wouldn't do anything like that." 

"How d'you think they got to be parents?" Harry said. "With seven kids, I suspect they're pretty good at it by now." 

Ron's jaw fell. "Harry!" 

"Sorry." But his lips twitched, and when he saw Ginny cover her mouth to hide an impish smile, he couldn't hold back a snicker. 

"Oh, fine, go on and laugh," Ron said huffily. "It's just revolting, is what it is." 

"Anyway, I see what Ginny's saying," Harry said. As he said it, he _did_ see, and his mirth abruptly died. "Wait … you mean, Lupin can't ever …" 

"It wouldn't be safe," Ginny said. "You know how he is about not wanting to infect anyone else, even an enemy. Think what it'd do to him if it was someone he really cared about." 

"That's awful," Harry said. "He's … he's always going to be alone, then." 

"But hang on," Ron said. "Isn't it just during the full moon he'd have to worry?" 

"I wish it was that easy," Ginny said. "The full moon is just when he transforms. The rest of the time, even when he's in human form, he's still a werewolf. It's still in his blood." 

"It isn't fair," Harry said. "He's a good man." 

"I know," Ginny said. "I'm not trying to say mean things about him. You asked why I didn't think he could ever tell Tonks how he feels, and I answered you. The rest of it might not matter so much, but the werewolf thing …" 

None of them said anything for a while. They just sat, each lost in his or her own thoughts. The sun climbed higher and the day grew warmer. Yet even as they did, Harry found himself sinking into a lower and colder mood. 

He was sad for Lupin, and that sadness spread into a melancholy for Sirius … and for himself. 

Were they all three doomed to live their lives without real love, and to die alone? 

Sirius had spent twelve years in the waking nightmare that was Azkaban, and had only barely begun to reach out to those around him when death had snatched him ruthlessly away. 

There was nothing as damning as the curse of the werewolf or a prison conviction hanging over Harry's head, but didn't he carry a curse of his own? A curse that did not so much endanger _him_ as put everyone around him, everyone he cared for, in danger? 

Like Sirius, he couldn't dare let himself get too close to anyone. Like Lupin, his very presence was potentially dangerous to his friends. 

The sun climbed higher and hotter still, but from where Harry sat, the day was dark indeed. 

To be continued in Chapter Six: A Day at Diagon Alley ... coming Friday, October 15th, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	6. A Day at Diagon Alley

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Six: A Day at Diagon Alley   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously:   
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts   
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date   
Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress   
Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications   
Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower

* * *

Harry's turbulent arrival at the Burrow did not, thankfully, prove to be only the beginning. After that hectic first morning, things quickly settled down into more or less of a routine. With all the older Weasley brothers gone, there were plenty of chores to do around the house. That kept him and Ron and Ginny busy, right up until it was time to pack their trunks and head to London. 

On the appointed day, Harry loaded up his trunk and Hedwig, and joined Ron and Ginny in front of the Weasleys' large stone fireplace. 

"You're coming, too, professor?" Harry asked as Lupin appeared. 

"Not to Diagon Alley," Lupin said. He had recovered from his ordeal with only another scar to show for it. "I have some business in London, though, and I will likely see you at the train station." 

"I wish they'd offer you the job back," Ginny said. 

Lupin smiled. "Dumbledore has said he would, but even with things the way they are now, too many of the parents would object to my presence at Hogwarts. I think you'll like your new teacher." 

"You know who it is?" Ron asked excitedly. "Is it Moody, the real Moody this time? Tonks? Who? It's not someone horrible like Umbridge, I hope." 

"Didn't I just say that you'd _like_ the new teacher? Now, if you'll let me cut in the queue, I'll get out of your way." 

"Ah, yes, good, Lupin," said Mr. Weasley, coming in from the kitchen with Ron and Ginny's school lists in hand.   
"Floo Powder's on the mantle. Off you go." 

Taking a fistful of the Floo Powder, Lupin stepped into the flames. "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," he intoned in a clear voice. The fire turned green, and with a spinning sort of flash, Lupin vanished. 

"Grimmauld Place?" Harry turned to Mr. Weasley. "Why'd he go there? I thought … wait, don't tell me. It's complicated, right?" 

"Well …" Mr. Weasley tugged at his collar. "I'll tell you this much. The Order hasn't been using the house, so Dumbledore thought it might be all right if, under the circumstances, someone else stayed there." 

"Who?" Harry asked, feeling a little indignant. He still couldn't believe that Sirius had left the house to him, and wasn't sure he'd be able to claim it anyway, but it would have been nice for someone to let him know if a stranger was staying there. 

"The … ah … new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Mr. Weasley said. He took the jar of Floo Powder and offered it to Ginny. "Here you go –" 

"You mean, you've known, too?" Ron shook his head, exasperated. "I like that … weren't you planning to tell us at all?" 

"Don't talk to your father that way, Ronald," Mrs. Weasley said, coming in with her purse over her arm. "Go on, Ginny dear." 

First Ginny, then Ron stepped into the fire. Harry was next. He made sure to get a deep breath before throwing the powder, so as to be able to speak clearly when he announced, "Diagon Alley!" 

Emerald flames whirled up around him. He spun and spun and was ejected, stumbling and dizzy, into one of the private parlors of the Leaky Cauldron. Coughing on smoke, he steadied himself on the wall just in time to nearly be bowled over by a large ginger cat with a squashed sort of face and a bristle-brush tail. 

"Crookshanks!" Hermione called. "Harry, I'm sorry … he's just so happy it's the start of school again." 

"When did you get here?" Harry asked. 

"This morning. My parents dropped me off." 

"And?" 

"And what?" 

Across the room, Ron and Ginny were leaning halfway out the window. "You should be able to see it from here," Ron was saying. 

"And aren't you going to yell at me?" 

Hermione peered at him, puzzled. "For what?" 

"For having a Slytherin to tea." 

"What?" she gasped. 

"You mean you didn't hear?" 

Ginny quit leaning out the window. "Really, Harry, after the way you tore into us, did you think that we were going to 'run and tattle'?" 

Harry felt foolish and ashamed. "Sorry, Ginny. Sorry to you, too, Hermione." 

Mr. Weasley arrived next, patting clouds of green soot from his robes. His wife was right behind him. There were jolly greetings all around, and they trooped down to the Leaky Cauldron's common room to find a hearty lunch spread awaiting them. 

Awaiting them as well were Fred and George Weasley, both beaming broadly and looking prosperous in their dragon-hide jackets. They had opened their joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, earlier in the year and were, as they said over lunch, doing a booming business. 

"And not just in the fireworks, either," George said. "The joke wands have been a huge success." 

"The Skiving Snackboxes didn't sell so well over the summer," Fred admitted, "but since Hogwarts students started turning up, they've been flying off the shelves." 

"When can we see the shop?" Ron asked eagerly. "Ginny and I hoped to get a look from the window, but we didn't know which one it was." 

"I don't think you need to –" Mrs. Weasley began, her mouth tucked with disapproval. 

"Aw, Mum!" Ginny protested. "What if Ron and I solemnly swear that, no matter how great a shop it is, we won't expel ourselves from school and start a business?" 

"You had better not!" choked her mother. 

While the Weasleys bickered good-naturedly, Hermione leaned over and whispered to Harry, "So … what was that about, upstairs? What's going on? What Slytherin?" 

"You really don't know?" 

"No, Harry, I really don't." 

Ron, overhearing, shot Harry a worried look. It would be just like Hermione to blow her top. But Harry reckoned he would have to deal with her accusations and recriminations sooner or later, and wanted to just get it over with. So he told her the whole story. 

To his surprise, she did not immediately start scolding him. She sat thoughtfully, running the tip of her tongue over her front teeth – once prominent, but charmed to a more ordinary size by Madame Pomfrey – while Crookshanks curled on her lap making rusty purrs of contentment. 

"So?" prompted Ron, when the suspense must have become too much for him to bear. 

"Actually," she said, "I think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have a friend in the Slytherin camp." 

Harry and Ron both goggled at her. 

"You're joking," Harry said. 

"Well, think it through," Hermione said. 

"I bloody well have!" Ron blurted. "Back last year, when the Sorting Hat made that big speech about all the Houses getting chummy. Like that'd ever happen. Not with the Slytherins. They'd just as soon backstab us as look at us, and if you think Harry should make friends with one, you might as well hex him now yourself and save us the wait." 

"Ron, you're so narrow-minded!" Hermione said. 

"Oh, I am, am I? What, when every Dark wizard there ever was came from Slytherin House, I'm narrow-minded to distrust them?" 

"But that's not true, is it?" Harry cut in. "Pettrigrew was in Gryffindor." 

"Sirius was in Gryffindor, too," Hermione said. 

"Hang on, you know he was never a Dark wizard!" Harry said. 

"I know that, but think, Harry. At the time, everyone believed it. Even Hagrid and Dumbledore thought that Sirius had gone bad. But he _wasn't _in Slytherin. I'm sure people expected him to be. His family was probably horrified when they found out he got put in Gryffindor instead. But it's all the Sorting Hat, isn't it? The Sorting Hat looks inside you, and sorts you according to the characteristics it finds. It put all of us in Gryffindor, though in my case it was a close call between that and Ravenclaw –" 

"And it was tempted to put _me_ in Slytherin," Harry said. 

"Right!" Hermione pounced. "And why?" 

"Well …" 

"The main traits of Slytherin House don't include 'evil,'" she said, making little quotes in the air. "Surely someone can be ambitious and cunning without being evil." 

"What are you saying?" asked Harry. "That Jane's all right?" 

"Let's not jump ahead," she cautioned. "I haven't even spoken to her, so how would I know? I'm just saying that it's a mistake to leap to the conclusion that all Slytherins have to be evil." 

"But they _are_!" Ron banged his fist on the table, making the other Weasleys stop their conversation to look at him. "Sorry." 

"What's the trouble, little brother?" Fred asked. 

"We're debating the nature of Slytherin House," Hermione said. 

George grinned. "We almost wound up in Slytherin, didn't we, Fred?" 

Ron's eyes bugged. "You never!" 

"Almost," Fred agreed. "The old Sorting Hat saw right away that we were as ambitious and cunning and crafty as they come. I wonder sometimes if it didn't put us in Gryffindor in the hopes of doing us a good example." 

"The best-laid plans …" Mrs. Weasley muttered into her cup of tea. 

"I'm hurt, Mum, I truly am," said George. 

"Wounded to the core," added Fred, laying a hand on his chest. "Imagine what we might have turned out like if we _had_ gone in Slytherin." 

"Imagine it?" George chuckled. "She would have disowned us our second year." 

"So, you see, Ron," Hermione said, "it's possible for someone to be a Slytherin without becoming a Dark wizard. Maybe Jane's like that." 

"Maybe, but maybe she's playing us all for fools," Ron retorted. 

"You're impossible, Ron Weasley." Hermione stirred her soup too vigorously, threatening to slop it onto her lap and the snoozing Crookshanks. 

"I thought sure you'd yell," Harry said. "I thought sure you'd agree with Ron and Ginny." 

"Well, I'm happy I'm not so predictable," she said, sounding put-out. 

To change the subject, Harry told her about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher staying at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. They had already sent an owl with the story of Lupin's injuries, wording it carefully to dance around mentioning Macnair, in case the owl was intercepted. As always, speculating on a new teacher brightened Hermione's mood. 

"I'm so glad they found someone," she said. "I'd wondered if Dumbledore might offer the job to Firenze, since Professor Trelawney probably has her Divinations job back. But I didn't think that he would. Now more than ever, it's important for us to really learn, and the centaurs don't cast spells." 

"They should have given _Harry_ the job," Ron said. 

"Oh, come on, Ron! I'm just a student." 

"Maybe they'll still let us keep the D.A. going," Ginny said hopefully. 

"Maybe," Hermione said. "I hope so." 

"I just wish we knew more about this person they did hire," Harry said. "What if it's someone useless, like Lockheart, or worse than useless, like Umbridge?" 

"It won't be like that," Hermione said with confidence. "Wait and see." 

After lunch, they ventured out into Diagon Alley. The winding cobblestone street of wizarding shops was bustling with activity. Hogwarts students and their families rushed here and there, buying books, cauldrons, quills, potion ingredients, wands. Older witches and wizards went about their own business. Goblins scurried through the crowds, all of them looking shifty and untrustworthy. 

Harry saw many familiar faces. There were Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell coming out of Quality Quidditch Supplies with new red Quidditch robes over their arms. Seamus Finnegan tensed up when his mother caught sight of Harry, their row from last year still fairly fresh in both boys' minds, but Mrs. Finnegan must have been convinced of the truth because she gave Harry a smile and a nod. 

Various members of the D.A. came up to him, all of them expressing Ginny's and Hermione's same hope that, whoever the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher turned out to be, they would be allowed to continue their meetings. 

His first stop was Gringotts, the wizard bank, where he withdrew a supply of gold Galleons and silver Sickles from his vault. He was relieved to see that the pile of coins was still substantial. Even with one more year to go at Hogwarts, he should have enough to start him off well on whatever sort of adult life he chose. 

The start-of-term anticipation in the air affected Harry, too. His earlier brooding about how school wasn't all that important in the greater scheme of things recurred to him, but it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. 

He was not, however, able to overlook the more ominous indications around Diagon Alley, reminders that not all was well in the wizarding world. The front window of Flourish and Blotts was stacked high with a display of books on counter-curses and defensive spells. One shop was doing a brisk trade in various Dark magic detectors – Harry spotted a sign proclaiming that all Sneak-o-Scopes were "buy one, get the second for half price." 

The lampposts were once again plastered with wanted posters, but this time instead of the gaunt and unshaven visage of Sirius Black, the escaped Death Eaters snarled, sneered, and leered from the photographs. One image of Bellatrix Lestrange seemed to follow Harry with her hooded, sultry eyes. He shivered. 

One place where these foreboding and forbidding reminders held no sway was at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The shop was a crazy affair of mismatched bricks, gables that arched like surprised eyebrows, an upper story that looked in danger of toppling into the street at any minute, and two crooked chimneys sticking up at the sky like a rude gesture. The front steps tilted this way and that. At the top of them was a door painted bright orange with three interlocked W's done in gilding, and a plaque reading "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Number 93 Diagon Alley, Fred and George Weasley, proprietors." 

Flanking the doorway were two statues, three feet high and shaped like either imps or very devilish cherubs. These bore a strong resemblance to the twins, and both were indelicately spraying water. The twin streams splashed down onto the heads of fat-mouthed stone frogs that looked uncannily like Dolores Umbridge. The small fountain bases around these frogs were littered with bronze Knuts, and as Harry watched, four more students burst out laughing and added their own monetary contributions. 

Harry couldn't even get in the shop, it being so crammed with people. The best he could manage was a glimpse of Fred and George's best friend, Lee Jordan, manning the counter. 

As he was turning to leave, he saw Jane Kirkallen coming out of Gladrags Wizard Wear. Their eyes met, and Harry caught himself in the nick of time before calling out to her. Apparently realizing this, that same small hard-edged cynical smile twisted the corner of Jane's mouth. She gave him the barest of nods, and headed off toward Florean Fortescue's ice cream shop. 

His cauldron was full of purchases, and he had lost track of everyone else. The last time he'd seen Ron's parents, they had been with Ginny in the back room of Flourish and Blotts, pawing through the second-hand books. Ron had said something about trying to find a handbook of Keeper tips in Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Hermione had wandered off in the direction of the shop selling Dark detectors. 

Therefore, feeling like he could use one of Florean's famous crushed-nut chocolate sundaes, Harry went to the ice cream shop. 

On the way, he ran into Neville Longbottom, who was proudly showing off his brand-new wand to Dean Thomas. Neville's nose had been broken during the fracas in the Ministry, and it had healed with a slight cant to it, lending an unexpectedly tough look to Neville's normally soft features. 

"My old one was my dad's," Neville said. "I don't think it suited me, really, but Gran wanted me to use it. This one, Mr. Ollivander says, is just right for me. Eight and a half inches, white oak, and a hair from a hippocampus' mane. Oh, hi, Harry!" 

"Hey, Neville. Where's your grandmother?" 

"She let me on my own for once," Neville said, as though he could hardly credit this amazing news himself. "Gave me my list, and money, and told me I was old enough that I should be able to do my own school shopping." 

"Until he lost his book list and had to borrow mine," Dean said. "We're going for ice creams. Want to come?" 

"Yeah," Harry said, spotting Jane seated alone. He gave Dean a handful of Sickles. "If you get me a chocolate sundae, I'll grab us a table." 

As the two of them went toward the counter, Harry wended his way through the cluster of small tables and chairs that filled the patio. The table nearest Jane was empty, and he sat so that although their backs were to each other, she could hear him when he bent to rummage in his cauldron. 

"Hi, Jane." 

"Where are your minders, Harry Potter?" she asked archly. "Do I have time to finish my float before they burst in here and wreck the place?" 

"I'm really sorry about that." 

"Serves you right, talking to a Slytherin." 

"Look, Jane … I don't … I mean … they were only trying to … oh, hell!" He rummaged too vigorously, and knocked open a box of brown-banded crickets, which began hopping and skittering for freedom. 

"You don't need to explain anything to me," she said. 

"But I do," Harry said, scooping up crickets. "I think you're all right." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

On his knees, crickets crawling around inside his cupped hands, Harry looked up at her. "You're not like other Slytherins. You're not like Malfoy." 

Jane shuddered a little. "I hope not. He's the worst of them all. I don't want to be like him. I don't want anything to do with him." 

"Hermione worked it out," Harry said, getting most of the crickets back in the box and closing the lid. "About what it takes to be in Slytherin House." 

One of the escapees bounded onto Jane's shoe and she picked it up pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

"Everyone says she's the smartest student at Hogwarts," she said. 

"Why are you there?" he asked bluntly. 

"Why are you in Gryffindor?" 

"I asked you first." 

"So?" 

"All right," Harry said. One cricket had gotten away clean, but he caught the other moments before it could spring into a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl's banana split. "I guess … because I wanted to do what was right, to make a difference." 

"I can understand that." 

Dean and Neville had reached the counter and were placing their orders. Harry got back in his chair and waved when Neville turned to search for him. 

"So, what about you?" 

"Oh, you know," Jane said lightly. "Ambition, cunning, revenge." 

"No, really." 

"Yes, really." 

"Revenge against who?" 

"I already told you." 

"Jane –" 

"One chocolate sundae with extra nuts," Dean proclaimed, setting it on the table with a clunk, beside a drippy caramel-pineapple sundae of his own. "And your change." 

"Thanks," Harry said. 

Neville, celebrating his new wand and his independence with a triple scoop of Pumpkin Surprise, Cauldron Cake Crunch, and Maple Ripple on a waffle cone that had been dipped in chocolate and rolled in colorful sprinkles, sat down opposite Harry. 

Behind him, Harry sensed the movement as Jane got up and gathered her things. He wanted to say more, but couldn't very well with Dean and Neville right here. She brushed past him as she left. He watched her go from the corner of his eye, acting like he was paying attention to Dean and Neville's conversation – Neville's confidence had increased tenfold since this time last year, due in part to having scored far better than he ever would have dreamed on his Potions O.W.L. exam. 

Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and several other Gryffindors joined them as Harry was spooning up the last few gobs of nuts, chocolate sauce, and melted ice cream. For a while, surrounded by his friends, he almost forgot about the wider-world troubles that had been plaguing him all summer. 

The good mood continued through dinner, which took place in a dining room of the Leaky Cauldron, and lasted most of the evening. Only later, as Harry climbed the stairs alone to his room, this the last time he would sleep without the accompaniment of snores from his fellow sixth-years, did his fretful melancholy return. 

He lay wakeful, hands folded across his stomach, not bothering to remove his glasses as he traced the pattern shadows on the ceiling. 

Somewhere out there, Voldemort was plotting. Somewhere, his Death Eaters were gathering strength, recruiting new members, perhaps planning a raid on the now woefully underguarded Azkaban to free Lucius Malfoy and the others. If they hadn't already. Harry had the glum feeling that it would be just like the Ministry to hush up any further escapes. 

And he had no sense of it at all. No clue as to what Voldemort might be doing. Not even a glimmer of a hint as to Voldemort's mood. 

Was he angered at slow progress? Thrilling to a murderous victory? Gloating even now over some helpless captive? Killing? Raging at his underlings? Gathering allies among the goblins and giants? 

Harry had to know. He wasn't going to let Voldemort win. Voldemort had killed his parents over a prophecy, butchered James and Lily Potter solely because Sybil Trelawney had told Dumbledore that a boy child born to thrice-thwarting opponents would be his downfall … and in so doing, had only fulfilled the conditions of the prophecy himself. 

It made a closed loop, the foreseen future blending with the current present as seamlessly as when Hermione had used the Time Turner to blend the present with the past. Time couldn't be changed. The past couldn't be altered, and apparently neither could the future. Voldemort should have known that. Maybe he had, and had just been too arrogant, too confident, to believe it. 

All he had done was forge a lifelong bond between himself and Harry. A bond that, if Harry understood correctly, would only be broken when one of them killed the other. Or something to that effect. The wording of the prophecy had been so strange. 

"Neither shall live while the other survives," he murmured into the darkness of his room. 

What, really, did that mean? It didn't make sense. It didn't _say_ that they had to kill one another … and if one of them did, would they both die? Was Harry, therefore, immune to death in all other ways? If he took another fall from his Firebolt, or was struck with the _Avada Kedavra_ curse by someone else, or was hit by a Muggle car crossing the street, would fate somehow _have_ to intervene to make sure that Harry lived? 

Did it mean that the only way to win, to truly triumph over Voldemort once and for all, would necessitate Harry sacrificing his own life? Would he have to die to save everyone else from Voldemort's evil? 

Or, in the end, would it simply mean that everything would come down to a final confrontation between the two of them? 

_Another_ final confrontation, his mind amended bitterly. He had already had so-called 'final' confrontations with Voldemort on multiple occasions. 

As he lay there, staring up at the gloomy ceiling and listening to the night-sounds of Diagon Alley through the window, he wondered what would happen if either he or Voldemort should seek to commit suicide. 

If he, Harry, killed himself … would Voldemort, wherever he might be, fall down dead in that same instant? 

Harry shut his eyes, a rash of goosebumps prickling his skin as a chill ran through him. 

He did not want to die. Not by his own hand, and least of all by Voldemort's. 

But if it would be an end to all this … if it would save untold lives … end the Second War before it could really get started … preserve his friends … wouldn't it be for the best? In the long run? 

Throwing back the blankets, which were doing nothing to combat the chills, Harry got out of bed. He crossed the room barefoot in his pajamas, feeling the drafts seeping through the uneven floorboards and under the slightly crooked door. Hedwig, snoozing in her cage, opened one golden eye halfway, uttered a sleepy hoot, and closed it again. 

At the window, pushing aside the curtains, Harry looked out at the moon-silvered roofs and gables of Diagon Alley. 

Even at this late hour, it was not deserted. Cats slunk in the shadows, owls glided silently between the chimneys, goblin dustmen emptied bins. A few couples sat at small tables-for-two outside of Madame Morgana's Wine and Spirits, conversing by the romantic rainbow glow of candles in multi-colored votive glass holders. 

Most, though, of the midnight activity took place down by the disturbingly mouth-like entrance to a narrow side-street, Knockturn Alley. Harry saw hunched and hooded figures going to and fro. Coins and other items changed hands, heads leaned together in conspiratorial whispers. 

If he wanted to get himself killed, it'd be easy enough out there. His one previous visit to Knockturn Alley had shown him that much. 

He remembered being pawed at by snaggle-toothed hags with long black fingernails, remembered emaciated wizards covered with running sores like lepers. There had been crones of the stripe who had in storybooks lured Hansel and Gretel with a cottage made from sweets, and hulking men whose ancestry seemed even more dubious than that of half-giant Hagrid. 

Even the animals of Knockturn Alley had been not-quite-right … scarred old tomcats missing ears or eyes, horned poisonous-looking lizards, ravens with peculiarly human faces, two-headed snakes, flying monkeys with leathery wing-flaps stretched under their scrawny arms, spiders with too many legs, slimy toads like enormous flabby bladders. 

Standing there, shivering from the cold, Harry realized that not all the evil in the wizarding world stemmed from Voldemort. Knockturn Alley had probably been there long before the birth of Tom Riddle, and it had thrived just fine during the years in which Voldemort had been reduced to a near-revenant. 

Harry sighed and leaned his forehead against the breath-fogged glass. It felt soothing to his scar, even though his scar hadn't been bothering him. 

When he looked up again, he was just in time to see a girl emerge from the shadows, shaking back the hood that had been covering her head. Her ponytail flipped back and forth as she did so. It was Jane. 

Had she come from Knockturn Alley? He hadn't seen for sure. But few other places were open this late, and Madame Morgana had an Age Line across the entrance to her Wine and Spirits shop. He knew this because earlier at dinner, Fred and George had mentioned celebrating their grand opening. Ron had gone green with envy just hearing about it. Hermione, of course, had tutted when George told how Lee Jordan had gotten completely soused and thrown up in the gutter outside. At that point, Mrs. Weasley had stepped in and told them that it was hardly fitting talk for the dinner table. 

So, Jane could not have come from Madame Morgana's. He didn't want to think she had been in Knockturn Alley. He wanted to believe his instincts, and Hermione's supporting logic. 

She was coming toward the Leaky Cauldron. 

Of course. She must have taken a room, too, perhaps getting here by way of the Knight Bus. Harry couldn't very well see Vicar Kirkallen going out of his way to drop her off at King's Cross Station with the rest of "those folk." He spared a moment to imagine Uncle Vernon's reaction if, when he came to pick Harry up at the end of the year, he spotted the vicar there to meet Jane. 

Then, moving hastily, he threw his robes on over his pajamas and stuck his wand in his pocket. Still barefoot, he crept out into the hall and down the stairs. 

The common room was lit only by the sullen red glow of embers in the fire, but it was enough to let Harry navigate his way around the many tables, benches, and stools. The scents of strong tea and savory lamb stew rose from a brass tea kettle and an iron cauldron, both hung on long swiveling hooks over the coals. There was a loaf of hard bread and a wedge of harder cheese on a nearby cutting board, the cheese knife stuck into the wood. A pair of large eyes threw back eerie green reflections from one of the rafter beams. 

"Psst, Crookshanks," Harry hissed, and the eyes blinked shut and then vanished as a low, quick shape slunk away. 

The door inched open and Jane came in, easing it closed behind her. In the red light, she looked tired and unhappy. She carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with black string. 

"A bit late for shopping, isn't it?" he asked. 

She whirled, clapping a hand to her chest. The parcel dropped to the floor and the paper split, revealing what looked like a carved box of some dark wood. Ebony, maybe. 

"Harry!" Jane gasped. "You startled me. What are you doing, skulking down here in the dark?" 

"I could ask you the same question." 

She raised an eyebrow. "I asked you first." 

He wanted to think well of her, but she wasn't making it easy. Clandestine midnight trips to Knockturn Alley, mysterious parcels … "Jane, I –" 

"No!" she cried, eyes suddenly wide and wild. She pulled out her wand. 

Harry reached for his own, inwardly calling himself a hundred kinds of fool for ever thinking he could trust any Slytherin, that he should have known better, that – 

Something small but heavy dropped onto his back from above, something wrinkled and scabby. A wash of foul-smelling, hideously warm breath blew into his ear. 

Then pain tore through Harry as something sharp and steely plunged into his back. 

To be continued in Chapter Seven: Night of the Knife ... coming Friday, October 22nd, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	7. Night of the Knife

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Seven: Night of the Knife   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously:   
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts   
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date   
Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress   
Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications   
Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower   
Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley

* * *

The sharp thing skidded off Harry's shoulderblade, snagged in his robes, was wrenched loose from the murderous grasp that held it, and clattered to the floorboards at his feet. 

Even as this was happening, Harry got his wand in his right hand and with his left reached clumsily up and over, trying to catch hold of whatever it was that clung to his back with the feverish intensity of a rabid monkey. 

Jane darted around, wand out, trying for a clear shot. But Harry was flailing about so much that she evidently didn't dare risk a Stunning spell for fear of getting him instead. 

Harry stepped on the object that had clattered to the floor, lost his balance, and fell heavily to his knees. As he did, he felt the lively weight on his back flip up and over, pulling his robes up and over as well. Harry's head was enveloped in black cloth. 

The weight sprang off his back. He heard, as he fought his way free of his entanglement, the thump and skitter of it leaping from one table to the next. 

"_Stupefy_!" Jane called, then made a wordless cry of frustration. Missed. 

Yanking his robes off, gritting his teeth against the long line of pain down his shoulder, Harry finally saw what had wounded him. It caught the dull glow of the banked fire and glimmered, red on silver. 

A knife. A dagger. Old and ornate, with a blade that made a serpentine curve and a point splashed even redder with Harry's blood. The tarnished handle was set with dark jewels. At the crosspiece was an oval impression of a family crest, and letters too small to read in the dim light. 

Jane tried another Stunning spell, and the bright magical blast lit up the letters enough to show Harry what he had already guessed. 

_Toujours Pur_. 

The cheese knife, thrown, whickered nastily through the air. Jane yipped and ducked. It went over her head to strike with a quivering thunk in the wall, just below a tacked-up front page from the _Daily Prophet_. The Death Eaters in the photo shook their fists. 

"So he's got a girlfriend, he does, the nasty orphan, the son-of-a-Mudblood, meeting girls in the middle of the night and he'll get one of them in trouble and _then_ where will it end?" 

The voice, a harsh and waspish mutter, came from the table laden with bread and cheese. Making his way to his feet, Harry saw a small figure standing amid the blasted-open loaf that must have caught Jane's spell. 

It hadn't been Crookshanks scurrying in the rafters at all. Though the figure was roughly the size of Hermione's stocky cat, it was upright on two bowed legs. Humanoid, hunched, shrunken. Loose and grimy skin wrinkled over its knobby body. Its oversized head appeared even bigger because of large batlike ears and a prominent nose. For clothing, it wore just a scrap of a rag knotted about its midsection like a loincloth. Strings of hair straggled across its patchy scalp, and its bulbous, yellow-rimmed eyes shifted from Harry to Jane to Harry again. 

"Kreacher!" gasped Harry. 

The demented house-elf glanced shiftily around, as if for a new weapon, but only bread and cheese were within reach. He muttered again, low but perfectly audible. "Oh, my Mistress, my Mistress, how she would weep and tear her hair to see what her line has come to, her fortune, her home, left to this abomination." 

"What is it?" Jane came up beside Harry. "A … a goblin?" 

"A house-elf," Harry said grimly. "A poor excuse for one." 

"As if he would know, the vile brat." Kreacher acted as if he spoke only to himself, as if oblivious to the fact that they could hear him. "Poor Kreacher, all his life, loyal and diligent, and how is he thanked?" 

"I've never seen one," Jane said. "But … aren't house-elves supposed to be helpful? Why'd it try to kill you? Are you all right?" 

"I'll mend," Harry said, looking down at the dagger emblazoned with the crest of the most ancient and noble house of Black. It occurred to him that Kreacher might have dipped the blade in something deadly, in which case he might drop dead from poison at any moment despite the relative insignificance of the wound. 

"… turning his back on his family and consorting with blood-traitors," Kreacher, still acting oblivious, went on. "Filling my Mistress' house with them, oh, bad enough, bad enough. Throwing out family heirlooms like so much rubbish, spitting his mother's eye, the unworthy and ungrateful whelp …" 

"He stabbed you." 

"He's deranged," Harry said. 

"What do we do?" 

"Kreacher!" Harry said again, this time in a commanding tone. 

The house-elf flinched and looked up at him with hateful suspicion. "It speaks to Kreacher, it does, it calls him by name and acts as if it can order Kreacher about, this boy, this Muggle-loving boy … and there it still is, the scar, the deformity, hideous on his face." 

"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded. "Who sent you? Was it Narcissa? Bellatrix?" 

"He dares, oh, he dares pollute their names with his vile flapping tongue. It should be torn out by the roots and slapped across his ugly Mudblood-born face." 

"Answer me!" 

"Shouting at Kreacher, acting the mighty lord, as if he thinks Kreacher must obey him. And the girl, this girl, what of her, Kreacher does not know her but she must be a blood-traitor like the rest of them, like the red-haired imps and half-bloods and werewolves who trespass in Mistress' house." 

"It's _my_ house now," Harry said. "Sirius left it to _me_." 

Kreacher acted as if these words had been a dousing of scalding-hot water. "The wretched imperious boy, saying such things to Kreacher! It is lies, all of it, lies! He will _never_ own the House of Black!" 

"He left it to me," Harry said, feeling furious and reckless. 

If Hermione was here, she'd berate him for speaking so harshly to a house-elf, even an insane house-elf who'd just tried to kill him. Even Dumbledore had said that Sirius' treatment of Kreacher was partly to blame for Kreacher's betrayal … that if Sirius had been kinder to the elf, he might still be alive. Easily said, and perhaps Hermione did have a point about the oppression of house-elves in general, but this one was a monster. 

"If he thinks, the foolish ugly boy-child, if he thinks that he will ever be master of that house, he is surely mad," Kreacher said in a loud aside to nobody. 

"Sirius should have given you clothes a long time ago," Harry said. "Don't expect that I won't." 

"Kreacher would _rather_ have clothes!" the elf spat with sudden venom, addressing Harry with uncharacteristic directness. "Kreacher would never permit _his_ head to hang severed in the halls of Black with his ancestors, not if Harry Potter dwells there!" 

"Eew," Jane, still beside Harry, said softly. 

"I wouldn't have your head on my wall," Harry said. 

"But Harry Potter shall _not_ dwell there," Kreacher said. "Kreacher will destroy the house first … or better yet, Kreacher will destroy Harry Potter!" 

With that, with a wave of his shriveled arms, the air was full of flying chunks of bread and cheese. The wooden doors behind the long oaken bar burst open and a hailstorm of mugs and glasses erupted toward Harry and Jane. 

"Look out!" Harry spun her away, both of them trying to shield their faces and heads from the poltergeist whirlwind of crockery. 

The ale taps opened, pouring foamy amber-gold torrents. A smoked ham, hanging from the ceiling in a net bag, ripped free and came after Harry like a Bludger in a Quidditch game. 

He fired a Stunning spell, but Kreacher somehow deflected it … or possibly wasn't affected. Dobby, another house-elf of Harry's acquaintance – one who had nearly gotten him killed several times but usually with the best of intentions – had demonstrated a superhuman resilience to physical punishment. Stunning spells _had_ worked on Mr. Crouch's house-elf, Winky, but Winky had taken half a dozen of them from some of the Ministry's top peacekeepers. 

"This is crazy," Jane said, as they took cover behind an overturned table. 

"Welcome to my world." 

The table shot straight up as if someone had lit a stick of dynamite under it, leaving them exposed. 

Drawers were yanked past their stops by the unseen force of Kreacher's magic, and cutlery joined the melee. None of the knives were as long or brutally sharp as the dagger or the cheese knife, but the tines of the forks jabbed like the stings of enraged bees. 

"_Diverto_!" Jane shouted, waving her wand in a wide semi-circle in front of them. An oncoming wave of dishware veered away from them, skimming past on all sides with inches to spare but not touching them. 

"Nice one," Harry said, and then grunted as the smoked ham blindsided him. It wasn't as hard, or moving as fast, as a Bludger, but he still saw stars. 

"Never! Never!" shrieked Kreacher over the cacophony of smashing glass and pottery. "Kreacher will never bow to Harry Potter. The House of Black will never be his! It will go to its _rightful_ master, and Kreacher will serve _him_ well and see that the ancient glory is restored, oh, Mistress will be so pleased!" 

"Ah!" Jane clapped a hand to her face, where her cheek had been sliced open by a bit of broken bottle. 

"Together," Harry said. "One, two, three!" 

"_Stupefy_!" they chorused. Red beams shot from their wands, but Kreacher, with the sprightliness of a leprechaun, hopped over them. 

The elf gestured, and the heavy pot of simmering lamb stew wobbled as it began to rise from the hook that held it over the fire. 

"All right … _Reducto_!" Harry aimed not at the elf, but at the table upon which the elf was capering. 

It exploded into wood splinters and dust. Kreacher was knocked up and backward, cursing blisteringly. The dive-bombing dishes and utensils rained down. The platter the bread had been on was flipped high like a tiddlywink. Before it hit the floor, Harry scrambled into the mess, searching for Kreacher. 

He saw a small, bare foot with black toenails so overgrown that they curled under the bottoms of the toes, and snatched at it. But even as he did, Kreacher writhed in his grip and dug his fingers into Harry's throat. The house-elf's tiny hands were like metal clamps. 

"Horrible to touch him," Kreacher wheezed, his rancid breath spewing into Harry's face. "But it must be endured, it must be done. It is only for a moment and then he will be dead, he will be dead and all will be set right!" 

"Let go of him!" Jane swung the wooden box she'd been carrying. Its corner met Kreacher's skull with a sound like someone taking a hammer to a coconut. Inside the box, glass broke with a brittle clink. 

Kreacher grunted. For an unbearable moment, his literal stranglehold on Harry tightened. Then his eyes rolled up to whites, which weren't white but the runny yellow of rotten eggs, and his grip slackened. He went limp. 

With a hoarse croak, Harry rubbed his neck and tried to swallow. He looked at Jane. She stood over them, breathing fast, covered in breadcrumbs, blood smeared from the cut on her cheek. Something dripped from the seam of the box she held, and at first he thought she must have caved in Kreacher's head. But the stuff running from the box was greenish and clear, a leak from whatever had broken. 

The noisy ruckus had not gone unnoticed. Harry heard slamming doors and running footsteps from all over the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn't looking forward to having to explain this, especially because he didn't really know what had happened. Kreacher had tried to kill him, yes … but why? How? On whose authority? Not even Kreacher, despicable sneak-thief though he was, would take violent action on his own. 

Still rubbing his throat, Harry let Jane help him up. He touched her cheek, near the cut. 

"You're hurt," he rasped. 

"I'll … I'll mend," she said. "But what … what was all that?" 

"I don't know." Harry stooped to pick up the dagger, and turned it over thoughtfully in his hands. "Maybe he can tell us when he's calmed down. _If_ he calms down." 

Kreacher moaned. One eyelid fluttered. Then, with astonishing quickness, he came around. 

"Hey!" Harry said. "No! Don't let him –" 

With a whip-snap of noise, Kreacher Disapparated. Harry ground his teeth angrily. He didn't think he really would have gotten any answers out of Kreacher, but now he wouldn't even have the chance to try. And any second, the Weasleys were going to rush in here, and the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione, and a dozen strangers, and all of them would want to know what had happened. What he was doing down here, in his pajamas, with Jane … and with a knife-scrawl down his back. 

"He's gone," Jane said. 

"Yeah. But I know where. Come on." 

"What? Where are we … what?" 

Holding her by the arm, wand and dagger in his other hand, Harry propelled Jane out of the common room and into the entry hall. Here was an unlit fireplace, roomy enough to roast a whole ox, with cast-iron sculptures of chimeras holding a log so immense that only Hagrid could have lifted it. They stepped in, only having to duck their heads slightly. 

"Light it," Harry said, reaching up on the mantle for a handful of Floo Powder from a ceramic urn shaped like a squatting troll. 

Jane spared him a dubious eyebrow, but didn't argue. She lit the fire, orange flames dancing along the top of the log. 

"Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," Harry said, and threw the powder. 

Cool green fire blazed around them, whirling them. Harry heard Jane's startled exclamation, felt her cling tight to his arm. She must not have ever traveled by Floo Powder before, and of course she wouldn't have had much opportunity, not while spending her non-Hogwarts time at the parsonage. In her way, she was more Muggle-raised than he was. He wondered how she had survived in Slytherin, given the way most of that House felt about Muggles. 

He didn't have time to think about it, because they arrived in a puff of soot in the dark and silent kitchen of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Harry got out, switching the dagger to his other hand, ready for Kreacher to leap at him. It was probably a mistake, coming here. On the house-elf's own home territory, who knew what traps he might have set or what other weapons might be at his disposal? 

Jane, with the wooden box under one arm and her wand out, followed him. "If you don't mind me asking –" she whispered. 

"This was my godfather's house," Harry replied. "He left it to me." 

"Sirius Black was your godfather?" 

"That's right. And yes, he did spend twelve years in Azkaban, but he was wrongfully condemned. He never betrayed my parents, never murdered anyone. A Death-Eater killed him a few months ago. His cousin. Bellatrix Lestrange." 

Jane closed her eyes for a moment, bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I know what that can be like." 

"Was it true?" 

"What?" 

"That Death-Eaters killed your mother?" 

"Not in the same way. She … she hanged herself." 

"Was it the Imperius Curse?" Harry asked, remembering when Barty Crouch Jr., masquerading as Moody, had cast it on him. The feeling of total helplessness had been, in its way, almost as bad as the agony of the Cruciatus Curse. Maybe, if he hadn't been able to fight off the effects, it would have been worse. Pain, he could deal with. 

Her face twisted into a horrible look of anguish. "I … I don't know if we should talk about this now, Harry. I don't know if I _can_ talk about it." 

"Right. Sorry. And this isn't the best place. Kreacher's probably lurking around." 

"Does anyone live here?" she asked. 

"Professor Lupin said that someone was staying here. The new teacher." 

And, looking around, Harry did see signs that someone must have been in the kitchen recently. Someone besides Kreacher, because the room was clean, and a few dishes had been neatly left to dry in a dish drainer beside the sink. The room smelled not of mold and madness, which he would have expected if only Kreacher had been in residence these past weeks, but of warmed milk and fresh-baked banana bread and some elusive, fruity scent. 

No elf-thrown missiles came pelting out of the shadows. Harry tried to think of all the various hiding places and other haunts used by Kreacher. He had to admit that he didn't know what other changes might have taken place since he was last in this house. That had been Christmas time, not counting when he'd stuck his head from Umbridge's office into this very fireplace. 

While he'd been at school, Sirius had continued maintaining the house as a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. He'd kept Buckbeak upstairs, and presumably carried on with the efforts to clean up and rid the rooms of the many assorted leftovers from the days of the Black family. 

Were the heads of Kreacher's house-elf predecessors still hanging in the hall? Was the banshee-wailing portrait of Sirius' mother still poised to unleash her fury at a knock on the door or a pull at the bell? Was the tapestry still there, the one that showed generations of Blacks stretching back into the Middle Ages? 

What about Lupin? He had come here instead of accompanying the rest of them to Diagon Alley. Presumably, to meet with this new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher … maybe to arrange that teacher's travel to Hogwarts. Lupin himself had gone via the Hogwarts Express, the first and thus far only time Harry had seen an adult passenger on the train. 

Somehow, raising his voice to hail anyone in the household would feel even ruder than his unannounced intrusion into the kitchen. The silence was library-thick, tomb-thick. Not even a rustle to reveal which way Kreacher might have gone. 

"Harry?" whispered Jane. "What are we doing here?" 

"I want to find out what Kreacher's up to. I know he's hated me … he hates everyone, as far as I know, but he's never tried to kill me before. Is it just because he doesn't want me inheriting this house? And, by extension, him?" Harry gave a shudder. 

"Fair enough. But why am _I_ here?" 

"Oh." He ran a hand through his hair, only then noticing that it was sticking up in wilder corkscrews than usual. This reminded him again that he was in his pajamas, which were torn and bloodstained. 

Jane's smile this time was different than it had ever been before. It dimpled at the corners. "Or do you make a habit of whisking girls off on strange midnight adventures?" 

"Not hardly," Harry said, suppressing a laugh. 

"I guess this means you must trust me a little," she said. "Slytherin or no." 

"I guess it does." 

"But you should probably have someone look at your back," Jane went on. "That knife cut isn't just a scratch." 

"At least it's not poisoned." 

At this, she paled and stared at him. "Why … why do you say that?" 

"Because, knowing Kreacher, I'd be dead by now if it was," Harry said. "Come on. We'll check his bolt-hole. He's got a hideaway upstairs, where he keeps all his mementos. Probably, that's where he had this knife." 

Jane nodded, though she was still pale and uncertain. 

Seeking to reassure her, Harry added, "Don't worry. I'm not going to stab him. I might be tempted, but …" 

"But what?" 

"Wouldn't be right, somehow. Wouldn't be very fair." 

"That's a Gryffindor for you," she said, almost in a low-and-aside mutter of her own. "I don't know how fair I'd fight with someone who just tried to murder me." 

Both of them on alert, they proceeded by wandlight through the kitchen toward the front of the house. Harry warned her about the portrait of Mrs. Black, but when they reached the hall, they saw that it was indeed gone. There was a lighter spot on the wall where it had been, and around the edges were scorch marks attesting to whatever spells had finally overpowered her Sticking Charm. 

The row of house-elf heads was gone, too, to Harry's relief. They had given him the creeps even by daylight when the house was full of friends. Seeing them in the dead of night, tip-toeing along and unsure whether there was anyone else here at all, would have been too much. 

In fact, it seemed that the house was in quite good keeping and repair. The walls were still paneled in dark wood, and many of the remaining furnishings were of a heavy, medieval style with prevalent clawed feet, snake and bat motifs, leering gargoyles and an unsettling way of seeming to move stealthily when glimpsed from the corner of one's eye. 

But new pieces of furniture had been added, among them homey and comfortable chairs that looked like a person could risk sitting in them without fear of the cushions closing like some great crushed-velvet maw, tables that did not look like guillotines in disguise, paintings that showed pleasant meadow and forest scenes instead of brooding storm-swept castles on high craggy bluffs or writhing serpents. 

At the foot of the front staircase, Harry and Jane paused. A faint light came from above them, and an equally faint murmur that might have been voices in conversation. 

"Look," Jane said, poking her lit wand tip at a few specks of cheese caught in the nap of the blood-red carpet runner down the center of the staircase. 

"He must've gone this way, then," Harry said. 

The first step creaked beneath him like the rusty hinges of a haunted house door. He froze, waiting with breathless expectation for the voices above him to stop, for more lights to flare, for there to be discovery. But there weren't any of those things. With Jane following, he ascended. 

Partway down the hall, a door stood ajar. Harry recognized it as leading to an informal sitting room. He also recognized one of the voices as belonging to Lupin. The other was that of a woman, and did not sound familiar. 

Closer now, he could make out words. 

" – repay all this kindness," the woman was saying. 

"Don't worry, Gwenna," Lupin replied. "You'll more than earn your keep at Hogwarts." 

"That's good of you to say, Remus, but they must not have gotten many good applicants for the job, if my credentials were acceptable." 

"Other applicants? What other applicants?" 

"Oh, it's like that, is it? I see." 

Dispensing with the quiet creeping along, Harry walked boldly to the door and pushed it wider. Lupin and the woman turned, Lupin half-rising from his chair and both of them looking moderately alarmed. Then Lupin's worn face relaxed into a smile. 

"Harry?" 

The woman, who had not moved from her chair but who had placed her hand on the wand that rested on the side table, now did rise. "This is him? The Potter boy?" 

"This is him," Lupin said. "Harry, what a surprise … come in." His gaze took in Harry's condition, and sharpened. "What's happened? You're hurt." 

Harry, meanwhile, stared at the woman that Lupin had called Gwenna. His throat, mostly recovered from Kreacher's efforts at throttling him, felt dry. Here he was, disheveled in torn pajamas, covered in crumbs, his hair like a fright wig, bleeding … 

She was tall, this Gwenna, and even more shapely than Madame Rosemerta, the innkeeper at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. A summer-weight sleeveless robe of spun golden cloth, woven with patterns of violet flowers and emerald-green leaves, flatteringly hugged her figure. Waves of jet-black hair fell soft and loose around her shoulders, and her tan was as golden as her gown. 

The exotic cast to her features, and a barely-discernible accent, told him that she was foreign-born. The way she held herself, regal as any queen, told him she was a person of far more importance than just some run-of-the-mill Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Around her neck, Gwenna wore a necklace, winking with reflected fire from a diamond set in the center of a many-rayed gold sunburst. More jewels flashed on her fingers. 

Lupin came over to Harry, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's this? You're bleeding. And … Miss Kirkallen, is that you?" 

"Hello, Professor Lupin," Jane said, smiling awkwardly. 

The two adults had been sitting in wing-back chairs, in the buttery glow from an amber-shaded lamp. A tea pot, two cups, and a sugar bowl sat on a wooden tea tray, along with a small plate of sliced banana bread and shallow dishes of mandarin oranges sprinkled with shreds of toasted coconut. 

On a low table between them was a stack of textbooks with titles like _Advanced Protective Charms, Curses and Countercurses, Spells of Safeguarding _and_ Active Magical Defense_. Beside the books were rolls of parchment upon which were written notes and lesson plans. 

"I'm all right," Harry said. "It was … where's Kreacher? Do you know?" 

"Haven't seen him all evening." Lupin frowned. "Are you telling me that Kreacher is responsible for this?" 

Harry handed him the dagger. "He tried to bury this in my back, threw a bunch of crockery at us, then half-choked me before escaping. We think he came here." 

"Let me see," Gwenna said. "I have some knowledge of healing." In a swish of silken robes, she moved behind him and he felt the gentle touch of her fingers as she examined the wound. "A shallow cut, clean. He shouldn't need to go to hospital." 

"Kreacher attacked you?" Lupin asked, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have thought him capable of anything so direct." 

"Me either, but he did," Harry said. "Do you have any idea what set him off?" 

"I'm afraid that I might," Lupin said heavily. 

"It had something to do with Sirius leaving everything to me, I think," Harry said. "He was going on about how he'd see me dead before letting me be master of this house." 

"I'll try to find him. Oh, but first … some introductions are probably in order. Harry Potter, this is Gwenna Golden. Professor Golden. Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, as of tomorrow." 

"I have heard much about you, Harry Potter," Gwenna said, with a touch of something sorrowful in her tone. She clasped his hand briefly, squeezed it. 

"And this is Jane Kirkallen, another student." If Lupin was shocked to see Jane here, he hid it well. "Miss Kirkallen, it seems you've taken some lumps as well." 

Jane covered the scratch on her cheek. "It's nothing, Professor. A cut from some broken glass." 

"She helped me fight off Kreacher," Harry said. 

"Do Arthur and Molly know where you are?" asked Lupin. 

A guilty knot cinched tighter in Harry's gut. "Not exactly." 

"Not exactly?" 

"No. No, they don't. We left the Leaky Cauldron in a hurry, before anyone else came downstairs to investigate the commotion." 

As impolite as it felt to sit there with his shirt off while someone who was not only a new teacher, but a complete stranger and beautiful woman of obvious importance tended to him, Harry did so at Lupin's urging. Gwenna laved the crusts of drying blood from his back and performed a Coagulating Charm to stop the bleeding, then did the same for Jane. 

While this was going on, Harry related in greater detail the events of the night. He left out how he had seen Jane coming from the direction of Knockturn Alley, making it seem like he had gone downstairs for some other reason and Jane walked in during the struggle with Kreacher. 

"He's got to be around here somewhere," Lupin said. "You know of course how unusual it is for a house-elf to leave the house to which it is bound, unless specifically ordered to do so. But then, Kreacher is an unusual house-elf." 

"So you believe that he would want to kill Harry, to keep Harry from taking over this house?" Jane asked. "What would happen then? To the house, and to Kreacher?" 

Lupin took a long, slow breath and glanced at Gwenna. 

"What?" Harry asked, catching the significance, if not the meaning, of that look. 

"I'm afraid that it is my fault this Kreacher tried to do away with you," Gwenna said. "Ever since I came here …" 

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning," interrupted Lupin. 

"Somebody please let me know what's going on," Harry said. "Why _are_ you here? I can see why Dumbledore might want to hide away a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, since Voldemort –" 

Amazingly, nobody flinched. Lupin had never shied from saying the name, and perhaps Gwenna Golden, being a foreigner, didn't share the instinctive fearful aversion of most of the witches and wizards in England. But even Jane, though her eyes did widen a little, took it in stride. 

"—might want to get rid of you," Harry continued. "Seen as how it's Dumbledore who opposes him, and most of Dumbledore's supporters would still be students at Hogwarts, it would make sense to try and leave us as under-prepared as possible. So it makes sense that you'd be here, where the Death Eaters couldn't eliminate you before school started. But what should that have to do with me and Kreacher?" 

At that moment, a door to an adjoining bedroom swung open to admit a small figure. Harry and Jane grabbed for their wands. 

"No!" Lupin reached out with both hands and swatted their arms down. 

It wasn't Kreacher in the doorway, yawning and rubbing his eyes. It was a toddler in fuzzy blue sleepers, dragging a blanket and carrying a stuffed toy doggy. 

Gwenna went to the child, lifting him into her arms. She turned to face Harry. 

"Because of him," she said. "Here is why Kreacher would kill you, Harry Potter. Because of my son … Arcturus Black." 

To be continued in Chapter Eight: The Black and the Gold ... coming Friday, October 29th 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	8. The Black and the Gold

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Eight: The Black and the Gold  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me. 

Previously:  
Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts  
Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date  
Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress  
Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications  
Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower  
Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley  
Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife

* * *

"Your … your son," Harry said. 

From Gwenna's arms, the little boy gazed at him, drowsy but untroubled. He had curly black hair, and large soulful eyes that regarded Harry with a calm, owlish curiosity. One thumb was corked securely in his mouth. 

"Yes," Gwenna said. 

"And … and Sirius' son?" His voice quavered. 

"Yes," she said again. 

Movement caught his attention. Jane was sidling backward, toward the door, her mouth crooked in an apologetic smile. "I … I shouldn't be here." 

"No," Harry said. "No, don't. Please stay." 

"But this … this sounds personal. I'll go back to the Leaky Cauldron." 

"If you go back without me," Harry pointed out, "you'll be right in the thick of it, everyone awake and confused and wanting to know what happened." 

And, he thought, Molly Weasley would raise the roof once she figured out that Harry was gone. If she got the idea Jane was in any way involved or responsible … 

"Perhaps we should all have a seat," Lupin said. He swept his wand, and two other chairs floated from the corners of the room to join the two by the table. 

Feeling like he, too, were floating, his bare feet hardly seeming to touch the carpet, Harry drifted in a sleepwalker's daze to the nearest chair and lowered himself into it. Jane, wringing her hands in an agony of propriety that might have been funny under different circumstances – the etiquette of the vicar's daughter – sank into another chair. Lupin and Gwenna sat, the latter with the baby on her lap. 

Arcturus dropped his toy. It came to rest near Harry. A black doggy. Harry's hand shook as he reached down for it. The baby made a cooing cry and waved his chubby arms. When Harry returned the toy, a beaming grin of genuine delight showed all six of Arcturus' tiny white teeth. 

"Ahgoo," he chortled. 

"You're … you're welcome," Harry said. 

Gwenna smoothed her son's hair and glanced at Lupin. "I'm not sure where to begin." 

"It's all right," Lupin said. "Harry … funny, now that I'm actually telling you, I'm not sure how best to go about it, either." 

"How long have you known?" Harry asked. 

"Not long." 

"Who else knew?" His fingers went white-knuckled on the armrests of the chair as he thought that here was one more thing that they'd been keeping from him. 

"A few of the Order," admitted Lupin. 

"And was anyone ever going to tell me?" 

"It isn't like that, Harry. We're not trying to keep secrets." 

"That'd be a first." 

"Remus, let me speak to him," Gwenna said. She leaned forward, touching Harry's forearm. 

He didn't pull away, but he tensed, still not sure what to make of this beautiful stranger. "You're Sirius' wife, then?" 

"Well, it becomes complicated –" 

"Don't give me that!" Harry said. "Either you are or you aren't! Why didn't he ever say anything? Why didn't he tell me he had a wife, a son?" 

"He didn't know." 

"What?" 

"About Arcturus," Gwenna clarified. "He never knew." 

"How could he not … how … I don't …" Harry floundered. 

"If you'll let me, I will try to explain," she said. 

"Harry, there's something you should understand about Sirius," said Lupin. "You already know that he cared for you very much. Losing Lily and James was terrible for us all, but it was the worst for Sirius, and even worse than that was his knowing that he couldn't be there for you. His only consolation in Azkaban was the knowledge that Dumbledore would have gone to any lengths to keep you safe. And then, when you were old enough, you'd be brought back into the wizarding world. Brought to Hogwarts, where you belonged." 

"I know he cared about me," Harry said. "He died for me, it was all my fault –" 

"He would have done anything for you," Lupin said, forestalling more of Harry's self-recriminations with a gesture. "More than anything, he wanted to have you think well of him. It tore him up inside, thinking of what you would be told. How he had betrayed your parents, how your own godfather was a treacherous murderer. When the truth came out, he still wanted to make up for those earlier misconceptions. He wanted you to be able to look up to him, to respect him." 

"I always did." 

"I know you did. Sirius was harder to convince. Your good regard was very important to him. He wanted to be a role model for you. Even, perhaps, a hero." 

"He was!" 

"And to that end," Lupin continued, "Sirius got it into his head that you couldn't see him with too many human failings. You'd already witnessed him drinking, and you certainly knew about his trouble keeping his temper in check. He thought that you might think less of him if you knew he … well …" 

Here, clearing his throat, Lupin studiously avoided looking at either Gwenna or Jane. His wan complexion colored a little. 

"What?" asked Harry. 

"That he was … a man like any other. A man with … with a man's … desires. You must understand, Harry, that in school, Sirius was always … ah … popular with the girls. He always had a most active social life. He had strong drives, and he … he indulged them." 

"Sure," Harry said, and now he was studiously avoiding looking at Gwenna and Jane as well, and thinking that he was probably matching Lupin shade for blushing shade. 

"While in Azkaban, of course, he had neither the opportunity nor the inclination. When he got out, he saw himself as needing to become a father figure for you … and it might have made you uncomfortable to know about that side of him." 

"I understand," Harry said. He remembered how Ron had reacted when Ginny mentioned Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in the context of passionate kissing, and supposed that he might have felt the same if they'd been talking about _his_ parents. 

He had seen images of a younger Sirius Black in Snape's memories, recorded in the Pensieve. That Sirius had been handsome and arrogant, with an eye for the girls and an easygoing charisma. The Sirius in his parents' wedding photos had been much the same, seen dancing with various lovely partners at the reception. 

The Sirius he had personally known was not that same man anymore. Twelve years in Azkaban had crushed much of the arrogance out of him. It had never occurred to Harry to think that Sirius might still crave female companionship. He had been more big-brotherly than fatherly to Harry, and it simply was not the sort of thing he had considered. 

"So he thought," said Lupin, "that it would sully him in your eyes if you knew about Gwenna. He decided it was best not to tell anyone." 

"That's … that's not very fair to you," Harry said to Gwenna. "Or to Arcturus." 

"I told you, Sirius didn't know about Arcturus." She gave a piece of banana bread to the baby, who chewed it with great sloppy gusto. 

"Why not? Why didn't you tell him?" 

"It's something of a long story," Gwenna said. "To begin with, I am not from England. I am from much farther away." 

"You know that at the end of your third year, when you and Hermione helped Sirius escape before the dementors could administer the Kiss, he and Buckbeak left the country," Lupin said. 

"Yes," Harry said. "He went far away to stay clear of the Ministry." 

"But he would sometimes send you letters." 

"By bird. Not owls, but huge brilliant-colored tropical birds. I used to wonder where he was that they had birds like that." 

"They came from my island," Gwenna said. 

"Your island? Where?" 

"It lies in a part of the sea that the Muggles call the Bermuda Triangle," she explained. "My tribe has lived there for centuries. Our earliest ancestors were witches who fled the persecution of the patriarchal Muggle religions during the early Middle Ages. We established a land where women could be free and powerful, fearing and bowing to no man." 

"Amazons?" Jane asked, looking interested enough to take part in what she still must clearly have felt was not a conversation that was any of her business. 

"Some called us that," Gwenna said, smiling. "We were not the warriors of Greek myth, we did not mutilate our bodies the better to draw a bow … but we did raid neighboring islands for male slaves, that we might perpetuate our race." 

Harry's mouth fell open. "You … Sirius wasn't … I mean …" 

Her laugh was merry, though tinged with sadness. "No, Harry. Sirius was no slave-captive of the Amazons. We gave that up long ago. Although women are still the rulers of our society, and men are considered lesser citizens, they are not our mere chattel. We had males of our own, bred to be small and docile, while our women were tall and strong." 

Looking at her, Harry could believe it. She would have been right at home in bronze armor, carrying a spear. 

"Gwenna was queen of the island," Lupin said. 

"Not quite," she corrected. "I was to be the next Golden One, which is the hereditary title of our rulers. My mother was old and very ill, and I was her eldest remaining heir. Until my sister, Gethel, learned of my weakness, and usurped my place." 

"What weakness?" asked Jane avidly. 

"I fell in love," Gwenna said. "Not just with a man, which is in itself forbidden to us, but with an outsider." 

"Sirius Black," Harry said. 

"None other." 

"How did he end up on a tropical island, anyway? Let alone one ruled by Amazons?" 

"It was not intentional," Gwenna said. "We guard our shores with spells that confuse Muggle instruments, and the seas around our island are dangerous waters of shoals, storms, whirlpools, and aquatic monsters. Sirius Black was on a Muggle ship that met disaster there. With the hippogriff, he was able to escape the sinking. He made his way to land, both he and his steed battered by winds and rain, half drowned and half starved. One of our hunting parties found him, and brought him to my mother's palace." 

"How did he get a hippogriff on a Muggle ship?" Harry asked. 

"A very large crate," Lupin said dryly. "After all, Sirius couldn't very well book passage on any wizard-owned sailing vessel. Not that there are many. Even so, his risk of being identified was still great. Do not forget that the Muggle Prime Minister and various law enforcement agencies were also given his description, and told that he was a violent escaped criminal." 

"When I first saw him," Gwenna said, "he did not look like much. Thin, bedraggled, waterlogged. Yet something about him appealed to me. I took charge of him, and saw to it that he was tended and fed. My mother, her advisors and my sisters all thought it was but an idle curiosity. So did I, to begin with. I never expected to fall in love with him." 

"Why is it forbidden?" asked Jane. 

"It is our custom. We take mates to sire and raise our children, but my people believed that to love a mere man was to give him power. It would be like teaching our sons to use magic." 

"Hang on!" said Harry. "You're joking!" 

"No, I am not. On our island, men are not permitted to cast spells. They are given no wands. Should a man demonstrate too many instances of spontaneous magic, he risks being killed or crippled or exiled." 

"But Sirius was a wizard." 

"He was clever enough to conceal that from us," Gwenna said. She sighed and stroked her baby's cheek. "I had never seen a man like him before. He wasn't like our men at all. He had such fire to him, such intensity and passion. I let my sisters think that I was keeping him as a pet. He told me about you, Harry, and your parents. How much you all meant to him. I helped him to send you messages, though that, too, was breaking island law." 

"But you still held him prisoner?" Harry asked. 

"It may have seemed so, to the rest of my tribe. But as I first grew to admire him, and then to love him, I was determined to see him go free." 

Harry covered his face. "You should have kept him there. He'd still be alive." 

"I wish that were true," she said. "But even had he stayed on the island, eventually we would have been found out. And as much as he cared for me, perhaps even loved me, his heart was here. His thoughts were always with you, Harry. He couldn't have lived with himself, knowing that he was needed elsewhere." 

"So," said Jane, "you sent him away … and then your sister found out?" 

Gwenna nodded. "It all came out then. That he was a wizard, that I loved him and had helped him escape … and, finally, that I was carrying his child. I had not even suspected until well after he was gone." 

"All right," Harry said. He felt a pang for Sirius … Sirius, who hadn't even known he was going to be a father. 

"My sister petitioned for my disinheritance and exile, but my mother would not agree. Nor would she force me to abort, or allow Gethel to kill Arcturus when he was born. But I knew that the time would come, sooner rather than later, when Gethel would have the crown. If I was still within her reach when she became Golden One, my life and that of my son would be forfeit. And so, I left my home." 

"Gwenna made her way here," said Lupin. "Sirius had told her of this house, given her the address. Not knowing at the time, of course, that he would also lend it to the Order as their headquarters. I'm sure you can appreciate my shock the day someone rang the doorbell, and I opened it to find an Amazon princess with a baby in her arms." 

"And mine," Gwenna said mournfully, "to come all this way only to be told of his fate. I do not know what I hoped for. I wished only to see Sirius again, and let him meet his child. Whether there might have been any future for us …" 

On her lap, Arcturus seemed to sense her grief, patting her face with his pudgy little hands as if he hoped to soothe and console her. 

Harry had no reason to disbelieve her story. Wild as it was, with Amazon witches on some hidden Bermuda Triangle island, it was no stranger than an enormous castle in the English countryside harboring a school for wizards. 

He wasn't sure how he felt, though. His emotions were pulled in a dozen ways at once. 

Jealous that Sirius had been close to someone else, and never breathed a word of it to him … yes, definitely. Sympathetic toward Gwenna, who had loved Sirius enough to give up everything. Glad that, even though it had been short-lived, Sirius had found someone. Sorry for Arcturus, who would never know his father … but at the same time thankful that the boy at least had his mother, that he wasn't orphaned and alone like Harry himself. Aggravated that no one had told him, but understanding why it had been a difficult topic to bring up. 

He felt all that and much more. What he did _not_ feel was any sort of resentment toward the little boy. Instead, watching Arcturus try in his baby way to comfort his mother, Harry was seized by a strong protective urge. Sirius was gone, but Sirius had, even unknowing, left part of himself behind. Harry owed it to him to do whatever he could for Arcturus. 

"—futile, if not dangerous, for her to go home," Lupin was saying. "And so, we thought it fitting that she stay here for the time being. When Dumbledore heard of her situation, he offered her a job. And, since she didn't know what she was letting herself in for, she accepted." 

"I'm not sure how well I'll do," Gwenna said. "My knowledge of protective magics and counter-jinxes is more theoretical than practical. Our island has been so safe for so long that we had little need to defend ourselves. I only hope I can justify Dumbledore's faith in making this generous offer." 

"Generous, nothing," Lupin said cheerfully. "He was desperate. There isn't a witch or wizard in England who'd take that job." 

"Harry can help you with your lesson plans," Jane said. "From what I've heard, he's a good teacher." 

"Now I get it," Harry said to Lupin, having been thinking so hard he'd barely listened to their conversation. "You told me that Sirius had named me in his will, since he didn't have any children of his own. But the complication being that he _did_ have one of his own … only he didn't know it." 

"That's it exactly," Lupin said. "No one was quite sure how to tell you. I'm most heartily sorry for that, Harry. I hope you'll forgive us." 

"I do." 

"Now we know why the house-elf was trying to kill you, too," Jane said. "He must have gotten it into his head somehow that with you out of the way, everything would go to Arcturus." 

Lupin slapped himself in the forehead. "I should have thought of that. Of course, Harry. I wouldn't put it past Kreacher to reason along those very lines. It would suit his twisted sense of logic. To Kreacher, Arcturus is of the direct Black bloodline and therefore the rightful heir to this house." 

Before anyone else could speak, there came a colossal crash from downstairs, and then a woman's voice raised in exasperation. 

"Ow! Blimey! Who left that there?" 

"It's Tonks," Lupin said. "Evidently, your absence has not gone unnoticed." 

Jane looked alarmed. "Is that the woman from the treehouse?" she asked Harry. 

"Uh … yeah." 

A year ago, Tonks' noisy accident-prone entry would have precipitated a shrieking tirade from the portrait of Sirius' mother. Now there was only the sound of Tonks clattering through whatever mess she'd made, grumbling dark imprecations on people who strewed hallways with umbrella stands and other obstacles. 

Lupin left the sitting room. "Up here, Tonks." 

"Did I wake you? Sorry, Remus, sorry. I stepped in this coal scuttle, or whatever it is, and was trying to get my foot out when I knocked over the umbrella stand. Anyway, we've got a problem." 

"No, we haven't." 

"Harry's missing." 

"Harry's here." 

Tonks' footsteps ascended the stairs. "He's _here_?" 

"She's not going to be very pleased to see me, I have a feeling," whispered Jane. 

"Safe and sound," Lupin confirmed. 

"Thank goodness for that," Tonks said, her voice clearer now that she had gained the upstairs hall. "There was a hell of a ruckus at the Leaky Cauldron, and when nobody could find him, Molly was sure he'd been abducted. But why's he here?" 

"Because there was a hell of a ruckus at the Leaky Cauldron," Lupin said. "Our dear friend Kreacher tried to stab him." 

"Succeeded, I should say," Harry muttered, rubbing his shoulder. 

"Why, that repulsive little toad!" Tonks cried. "Where's he got to? I'll wring his neck." 

Lupin backed up, and there was Tonks in the doorway. Her eyebrows – one of them pierced by a silver hoop – shot up as she saw Jane. 

Tonight, Tonks was in full-blown punk mode, her hair screaming straight up in pink and black spikes. She wore a choke chain, a ribbed black tank top with a stretched and distorted white emblem of an eye in a pyramid across the front, tight white denims, and huge blocky boots. Silver jewelry jangled from her earlobes and wrists. 

"Wotcher, Harry," she said, not taking her eyes off Jane. "Had a bit of a scrap?" 

"A bit," he said. "Hi, Tonks." 

"You've got Molly Weasley having nervous fits again." 

"I wish she wouldn't. I'm all right. Really. I can take care of myself." 

"What about you, missy?" Tonks asked Jane. "What are you doing here?" 

"Leave off, would you?" Harry stood up to confront Tonks. "Jane's my friend. Just because she's Slytherin doesn't mean she's out to get me. If that was what she wanted, she could have let Kreacher kill me instead of helping me." 

Tonks turned to him, and Harry stared her down. Finally, Tonks shrugged and relented. "If you say so, Harry." 

"I do say so." 

"So what's this about Kreacher?" 

He told her the whole story as he'd told it to Lupin and Gwenna, again leaving out exactly how Jane had happened to be there. 

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Tonks sighed when he was done. "Kreacher's so far gone around the bend that he can't even see the bend from where he is, but he's not stupid. All he cares about is this house, and the Black name. Funny that here we are, busting our humps to protect you from Death Eaters, and it's a murderous house-elf comes closest to doing you in." 

"We'd better find him and have it out," Lupin said. 

"Clothes," Tonks said. "Clothes, and out the door he goes. There's no use keeping him around. It's not like he could tell our enemies much of anything, now that we're not meeting here. He's done more than enough damage. Let the Malfoys have him. Harry cost them one house-elf already. It's the least he could do to make it up to them." 

Harry almost snickered at the idea of Kreacher, insane mumbling Kreacher, working for the Malfoys. Let Lucius Malfoy try and treat Kreacher the way he'd treated – mistreated, rather – Dobby. Harry couldn't see Kreacher tolerating that kind of abuse for an instant, obedient or no. 

"He wouldn't take clothes from me," Harry said. "Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't think I had the right or the authority." 

"Same here," Tonks said. "As far as he's concerned, I've never been one of the family. But we've got to do something." 

"I know what to do," Harry said. "The only thing, really. The right thing. Gwenna?" 

"Yes, Harry?" 

"I want Arcturus to have this house. It should be his. The house, the fortune, whatever else there was in Sirius' will. He would have wanted it that way, too, if he'd known." 

"Harry, that's a grand gesture but –" began Lupin. 

"It isn't a gesture. I never wanted this inheritance. I don't need it. Sirius only left it to me because I was _like_ a son to him … Arcturus actually _is_ a son to him. It should be his." 

Gwenna touched his arm again, and this time he let her without tensing. "That is kind of you, Harry, but this has been such a strange night … you shouldn't make any decisions when you're overwrought." 

"I'm not overwrought." He looked from her, to Tonks, to Lupin. "Don't you understand, this is what's right? It's what Sirius would have wanted. I feel that. I believe it. He was my godfather. He tried to take care of me when my parents couldn't be there. It's the least I can do to see that his son gets what is rightfully his." 

"I won't accept yet," Gwenna said, gentling her words with a smile. "But there is one things you could do for me, and for Arcturus, if you're willing." 

"What?" 

"Be _his_ godfather, Harry. I think that if Sirius were here, he'd want that, too." 

Slowly, Harry held out his hand toward the little boy. Arcturus seized his finger in one warm, slightly sticky fist and gurgled happily. 

"I … I'd be honored," Harry said. 

Gwenna hoisted Arcturus toward him. Harry hesitated. He had no experience with babies, at least not since he'd been one himself, and could just see himself dropping the boy after all this. But Arcturus, with a cherubic giggle, slung his little arms around Harry's neck and let his dark, curly head fall with a soft thump on Harry's shoulder. Harry uncertainly patted him on the back, and Arcturus made a contented sound. 

He saw Lupin's bittersweet smile, saw Tonks mouth the word "Awww!" Feeling both sublime and sheepish, Harry glanced at Jane. She hitched a breath and turned away, brushing at the corners of her shining eyes. 

"Sweet moment though this is," Tonks said after most of a minute had gone by, "there's still Kreacher to contend with. He can't be allowed to get away with attacking you, Harry. I know where his favorite bolt-holes are. Let me track down the wretch." 

"I'll help you," Lupin said. He and Tonks left, bound first for the dank and musty crawlspace where Kreacher kept his hoard of salvaged Black family relics. 

Arcturus refused to let go, so Harry had no choice but to sit back down with his godson on his lap. Gwenna left to make fresh tea for everyone. 

"Some night, huh?" Harry asked Jane. 

"I really shouldn't have been here," she said. "This was … this was about family. This was special, and wonderful. I don't belong. You … you're all so … so good. So … so Gryffindor noble and true." 

"I meant what I told Tonks," Harry said. "About you being my friend." 

"Harry, I can't be. We both know that, and we both know why." 

"Not openly, maybe," he agreed. "I wouldn't mind so much, but for you, it'd be hell to pay if the other Slytherins found out." 

"How … how can you trust people so easily?" 

"You mean Gwenna? I believe what she –" 

"No, not Gwenna. Me." 

"Have you lied to me?" he asked. 

Jane opened her mouth, then closed it again and looked away. "Not exactly. But I've let you go on thinking some things that aren't true." 

"About your mother?" 

"More about my father." 

On Harry's lap, Arcturus smacked his lips, blew a spit bubble, and started sucking his thumb. His other arm was wrapped snug around his stuffed black doggy. It was an odd feeling, the sleepy weight of the child. 

"The vicar's got secrets?" asked Harry. 

"He's lucky," Jane said, gazing at Arcturus. "He'll grow up always knowing who he is and where he came from." 

"Luckier than me," Harry said. "I didn't find out who I was until I was eleven." 

"And when you did find out," she said, "it made everything better, didn't it? You finally understood. You felt good about your parents, about yourself, about who and what you were." 

"Well, yeah. It was like a dream come true. I was alone, the Dursleys hated me and treated me like yesterday's rubbish. What kid, in a situation like that, wouldn't dream of suddenly learning that he was a wizard, that there was a whole other world where he belonged? Why? Wasn't it that way for you?" 

"I always knew what my mother was," Jane said, sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms folded around them. "She'd given it up, thrown away her wand, but she was still a witch. She never kept that from me." 

"Gave it up to marry a Muggle, like you told me. So you're half-blood, so what? It might matter to the other Slytherin snobs, but it doesn't to everyone else --" 

"But I'm not, Harry. I'm pureblood." 

"You mean the vicar is a wizard?" 

"No." 

"Then what …?" 

"The vicar isn't my father." 

Harry sat speechless for a span of several seconds. "Isn't he?" 

Jane shook her head. 

All he could think of was to ask who _was_, but that would have been amazingly tactless. "Oh," he said. 

"And he knows he isn't," Jane went on. "My mother never pretended that he was. They met when my mother was … it sounds silly, but she was seeking spiritual guidance. She'd witnessed terrible things during the days when … well, You-Know-Who was in power, and it made her question whether or not all magic was evil." 

"That's not so," Harry said. "Not all magic is evil. It's a tool, like anything else. What determines good or evil is how it's used, and with what intent. Like fire. Fire can hurt and burn, but fire can also cook and keep us warm." 

"Harry," Jane said, holding up her hands with the palms out. "It was my mother who wondered, not me." 

"Sorry. What happened? She went to the church, to ask them what they thought of magic, and witches? Wouldn't that have violated a Statute of Secrecy? She could have been arrested by the Ministry, that is, if the Muggles hadn't tried to stone her to death first." 

"I don't think they do that as much these days." 

"You know what I mean, though," he said. 

"She did go to some churches, and that was how she met the vicar. They fell in love, and she decided that she would give up her magic and live as a Muggle, in the Muggle world. He asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Then, when they found out she was pregnant by someone else, he insisted on going through with the marriage anyway. He said he'd made a promise and he meant to keep it, no matter what." 

"So he's your stepfather?" 

"He adopted me. At first, it was all right. We lived like Muggles, all three of us. But as I got older, I started being able to _do_ things … you know." 

Harry did know. He had once accidentally set loose a snake at the zoo, terrorizing Dudley. Every Muggle-raised witch or wizard he knew had similar stories of spontaneous magic taking place when they were angry, or afraid, or excited. 

"How come they let you go to Hogwarts?" he asked. 

"My mother had made a decision for herself, but she didn't think it was her place to make that same decision for me. She wanted me to see both sides and choose my own way. Besides, I'm not sure that the parents really have much say in whether or not their children go to Hogwarts." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Think about it. The wizarding families, of course, it's expected. But what about the ones whose parents are both Muggles? Somehow, the Ministry identifies them, sends them their letters. What if there were some Muggles who refused? Can you see the Ministry leaving untrained witches and wizards out among the Muggles? I wouldn't be surprised if the Department of Muggle Relations has a special branch whose sole purpose is to browbeat or brainwash any stubborn anti-magic Muggles into going along." 

"They never tried that on Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia," Harry said. "They just sent Hagrid to kick down the door." 

"I bet that's pretty effective, too," she said, grinning. 

"So your mother told you everything, and you chose Hogwarts." 

"Not quite. She told me everything, and then she died." 

"Hanged herself," Harry said, remembering what Jane had told him when they'd first arrived at Grimmauld Place. "How old were you?" 

"I was eight. I'd done my first real magic, the first one they couldn't tell themselves was coincidence. I think that my mother, for all she'd been open with me about being a witch, had secretly hoped that I wouldn't be. When I turned out to be one after all, it made her have to face the truth again, and it was too much for her." 

"What truth?" Harry asked, sensing that this was what Jane had been verbally dancing around in all of their conversations. He had a hunch … a terrible hunch … 

"Got him!" Tonks suddenly crowed from the doorway. She marched into the room with her wand held out, and Kreacher, bound in magical green ropes, hovering in the air in front of her. 

To be continued in Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott ... coming Friday, November 5, 2004.

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_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	9. Hangman's Nott

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Nine: Hangman's Nott  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me. 

Previously: Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold

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The next morning came awfully early, because it was already well into the next morning by the time Harry got back to the Leaky Cauldron. 

He was exhausted, his head aching from the revelations of the previous hours and his body aching from the fight with Kreacher. He was glad that, upon returning with him to the Diagon Alley inn, Tonks brushed off everyone else's questions and declared that Harry needed his sleep. 

And sleep had claimed him almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. It was deep and restive, and when someone knocked on his door at eight, Harry had to almost physically drag himself to wakefulness. 

"Yeah," he groaned. 

The door opened and Ron's tousled red head poked in. "Harry, you awake?" 

"More or less." 

"Mum says we have to be ready to go by nine thirty, to be in time for the train." 

"Fine." 

Ron came in, shot a stealthy look over his shoulder, and closed the door behind him. "Where were you last night? What happened? Mum was in a right state when we found you were missing." 

"Your mum needs to stop worrying about me so much," Harry said, sitting up and squinting at the daylight as he fished around for his glasses. 

"Her, stop worrying?" scoffed Ron. "Might as well wish for Hermione to stop being bossy, or Hagrid stop making that treacle fudge what glues your teeth together. Hey, you're hurt!" 

"Oh. Right." Harry reached around and felt the bandage on his shoulder. He had shed his torn and bloodstained pajama top. "It's nothing." 

"The hell it is. Where _were_ you? What were you up to?" 

"Didn't Tonks tell?" 

"Not me, she didn't. Dunno what she said to Mum and Dad." 

Another knock, this one a brisk series of efficient raps. "Harry?" 

"Just a minute, Hermione," he called dutifully, and got out of bed to put on some clothes. 

"Is Ron with you? We have to be ready by –" 

"Nine thirty, yes, we know," Ron said, and shook his head. 

At the mirror, Harry twisted as best he could to look at the white pad taped to his back. He peeled it off. Ron whistled at the sight of the wound, which was a reddish dash-line of scar about seven inches long. But Gwenna's Coagulating Charm had worked nicely, and it barely hurt at all. 

Harry dressed, looked at his hair – black, unkempt, too long, just like always – and combed it with his fingers. "Come on in," he said to the door. 

It opened to admit Hermione, and behind her was Ginny. Crookshanks sauntered in, eyed Hedwig with catlike insolence, and sprawled out on the bed like a large ginger throw rug. 

Like Ron, the door had no sooner latched than they were asking him the same questions. Harry told them an edited version, but even that contained enough jaw-dropping details to leave all three of them momentarily speechless. 

Ginny spoke first. "Sirius Black's lost love! That's the most tragically romantic thing I ever heard!" 

Hermione dismissed any notions of romanticism with a sniff. "Haven't I said, haven't I been saying all along, that this is just the sort of thing that happens when people treat house-elves so abominably?" 

"Come off it, Hermione," Ron said. "Harry never mistreated Kreacher." 

"No, not Harry himself," she acknowledged, "but after a lifetime of it, is it really so surprising Kreacher should lash out like that?" 

"Well, he won't have another chance," Harry said, and Hermione gaped at him, horror-struck. "I didn't mean _that_," he hastened to add. "Tonks might've said she wanted to wring his neck, but she wouldn't really." 

"What did you do with him, then?" asked Ron. "Clothes?" 

"Couldn't," Harry said. "But once he heard that I was giving everything to Arcturus, he settled right down." 

"I thought you said Gwenna wouldn't accept," Ginny said. 

"She will, once she's thought it over," Harry said. "Besides, we didn't tell Kreacher that part. Lupin convinced Kreacher that, as a faithful house-elf, it was his job to keep the place in good order until Arcturus was ready to live there full-time. He got Phineas Nigellus to back him up, too. You know, that former Hogwarts headmaster, who's got one portrait in Dumbledore's office and another at Grimmauld Place." 

"And old Kreacher was all right with that?" Ron made a skeptical face. "Or did he just say so, and he's biding his time to have another go at you later?" 

Harry shrugged. "He got what he wants, the house belonging to a rightful Black again." 

"What I can't believe," said Ginny, "is that you took Jane Kirkallen with you. I know, Harry, I know, we talked about all that so you don't have to give me that look. But taking her to Grimmauld Place? Letting her hear everything? Isn't that extending the hand of inter-House fellowship a little far?" 

"Whether you like it or not, it's done," Hermione said. 

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, grateful for her support. 

"D'you fancy her or something?" Ron asked. "Jane, I mean?" 

"No!" Harry said. "And even if I did, I wouldn't do anything about it. I need more girl troubles like I need another scar on my head. I learned _that_ lesson last year, thank you very much." 

"You should pack," Hermione said. "We all should get breakfast. You can tell us about this new teacher on the train." 

The girls left, and Ron, saying he had to finish his own packing, did too. Harry shooed Crookshanks out and set about loading his school books and supplies into his cauldron, his clothes and other belongings into his trunk, and Hedwig into her cage. 

He heard someone come in as he was headfirst into the trunk, trying to make everything fit. Reckoning that it was Ron, he didn't turn, until he heard the intruder speak. 

"You're not going to get away with this, Potter. You're going to pay." 

Harry cracked the back of his head on the underside of the trunk lid as he scrambled hastily up and around. The voice had been only vaguely familiar, but the menace in it was unmistakable. 

A boy stood just inside his door, a thin boy with a sharp nose and sharp chin and generally pointed features. Long hair the color of dirty dishwater straggled over his collar. Bony wrists and ankles protruded from clothes that were even shabbier than Ron's hand-me-downs. 

Though they'd never really spoken much before, Harry knew him on sight. 

"I'll kill you for what you've done to us," this scarecrow apparition said. 

"What _I've_ done? It's your father who did it, Nott. Your father who chose to follow Voldemort." 

Theodore Nott's shoulders hunched and he drew his sharp chin in and down, rather like a turtle recoiling into its shell, as Harry spoke the name. 

Months ago, when Hermione had persuaded Rita Skeeter to write a tell-all interview and Luna Lovegood's father to publish it in the _Quibbler_, Harry had indeed told all. He'd named names. And one of the names he had named was that of Nott, a Death Eater who had answered Voldemort's summons on that horrible night in the graveyard. 

Once the article had seen print, the younger Nott and the other students whose fathers had been mentioned – Crabbe, Goyle, and of course Malfoy – had huddled together plotting their revenge against Harry. It hadn't gone so well on their part. 

"My family has lost everything because of you and your big mouth, Potter," Nott said. "Had to sell the house, all the furnishings. We're no better off now than those scummy Weasleys. My mother's drunk herself half to death thanks to you. My sister was supposed to marry into the Farnsworth family, but as I'm sure you can imagine, her fiancé dropped her like a dead snail once your story hit the papers." 

"Do you expect me to apologize?" Harry asked, the old familiar anger rising in him like a tide. "How many lives were ruined because of people like your father? How many families? Don't you stand there and whine to me, now that you're getting what you deserve." 

"They should have finished you that night!" 

"They tried," Harry said. His fists were clenched so tight that his arms were quivering. 

"But I'm going to succeed where they failed," Nott said. "I'm going to kill you, Potter. None of these stupid schoolboy jinxes like Malfoy tries to hit you with … I'm going to _kill_ you." 

"And you're telling me first?" Harry cocked an eyebrow. "That's not very Slytherin of you." 

"I'm not telling you in any spirit of 'fair play,' so get that idea out of your mind," snarled Nott. "I'm telling you so that you can think about it. Wait for it. Wonder when I'm going to strike, how, and from what direction." 

"Oh, save it," Harry said. "I've been threatened by worse than you, Nott, and I'm still upright and drawing breath. I won't be losing any sleep over your rubbish." 

Nott's eyes narrowed into deadly little slits. His hand plunged into the sleeve of his robes, going for his wand. 

Harry had his out in a flash. "If this is how you want it," he said, "take your best shot. Right here and right now." With his other hand, he waggled his fingers in invitation. 

Wand halfway out of his sleeve, Nott paused. He might not have been there when Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were foolish enough to ambush Harry outside of a car full of D.A. members, but he would have heard about the oozing, drippy fate that had befallen his fellow Slytherins. Even with Harry alone, Nott wasn't confident enough to meet him face to face. 

"When _I'm_ ready, Potter," he said, mustering what dignity he had left. "Not when you are." 

"Suit yourself," Harry said, putting his wand away. "Now, though, if you're done wasting my time, I have to finish packing." 

Nott, clearly disgruntled at an encounter that hadn't gone at all the way he'd anticipated, stormed out. Harry snorted. 

He was almost looking forward to seeing Draco Malfoy again, seeing the simmering frustrated loathing in Malfoy's pale eyes. Of course, the Malfoy family hadn't suffered the way the Notts evidently had … Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, would be much too canny to organize his affairs in a way such that any single catastrophe could ruin them. As pleasant as it would have been to see haughty Narcissa Malfoy left penniless, Harry didn't think it would happen. 

When everything was packed and ready to go, except for one item he had removed from his trunk and put in his pocket, Harry headed downstairs for breakfast. He could smell bacon frying, and was hungry enough to eat a heaping platter of it, with eggs and potatoes and toast as well. 

The common room had been tidied, with the signs of last night's mess were only there for someone who knew where to look. The table, for instance, that Harry had blasted to splinters, was replaced by a board laid across two barrels, the whole makeshift construction draped with a tablecloth. The shelves were far less full of mugs and glasses than they had been. 

None of this interested Harry much, though. The long table with a buffet breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, toast, muffins, oatmeal, fruit juice and waffles drew him like a magnet. He saw Jane there, wearing a dark green corduroy jumper over a black turtleneck. She looked very much the Slytherin girl now, even her ponytail threaded through a wooden ring that had been carved and painted to resemble a snake. 

Many other students and their families already crowded the room. Harry moved along the buffet table, piling his plate. He came up alongside Jane as she was debating the relative merits of muffins, purposefully bumping her as if he wasn't looking where he was going. 

"Sorry," he said, as he surreptitiously slipped the item he'd taken from his trunk into the deep pocket of her jumper. 

Playing her part, she twitched away from him as if being so close to any Gryffindor, let alone the vaunted Harry Potter, was as distasteful as a trip to the dentist. She chose a muffin – blueberry – and retreated to a corner table. He thought that she looked tired and wan this morning, as if she, unlike him, had not slept at all well for what had remained of their hectic night. 

The Weasleys were impossible to miss, especially as Fred and George and Lee Jordan had joined Ron, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione for an impromptu morning farewell party. Theirs was the table with the liveliest chatter, the most laughter, and the occasional puff of multicolored smoke or fizzing bubble of light as the twins demonstrated some of the newest merchandise from their shop. 

Harry wedged himself in between Ron and George, greeted everyone, and tucked into his bacon and eggs.  
Now that the day had arrived, he found himself brimming with the thrill of returning to Hogwarts. He hadn't thought he would feel that way, given his earlier brooding on how unimportant school was in the greater scheme of things, but with the air around him all abuzz with other students eagerly discussing the start of classes and another season of Quidditch, the dire troubles of the rest of the world seemed to recede. 

At the end of the table, Mr. Weasley was flipping through the _Daily Prophet,_ while Mrs. Weasley fussed over last-minute things. "Ginny, did you remember your good quill? Oh, Ron, I hope those new dragonhide gloves we bought you are the right size; I wish you'd taken the time to try them on in the shop." 

Glancing over at Jane, Harry saw her picking listlessly at the blueberry muffin. She had the distant demeanor of someone whose thoughts were miles away … and were dark thoughts at that. He didn't think that she had even checked to see what he'd put in her pocket yet, let alone read the note. 

He wasn't sure just what had compelled him to do it. Of all the people he could have given the second magic mirror to, why Jane? 

But he had, and with the note describing what it was and what it did. All she'd have to do, if she wanted to contact him, was to hold it and speak his name. 

Tonks' triumphant capture of Kreacher the previous night had come just as Jane had seemed about to unburden herself of some troubling truth, something she'd guarded for a long time like an oyster with a pearl. 

Something about her parents. 

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised that the vicar wasn't her father. Who, though, had her real father been? A wizard … what wizard? What had happened to him? 

As if she'd heard his unspoken questions, Jane looked up. Her eyes met his across the room and Harry was rocked to the heels by the pain that he saw. Not physical pain, but a stark mental anguish similar to that he'd seen in his own reflection after Cedric's death. 

Similar … but not the same. As if it was not some horror she'd witnessed that haunted her, but some horror she'd done. 

Jane got up, leaving her breakfast all but untouched, and hurried from the room. No one else particularly noticed her going. 

He wanted to go after her and knew that he couldn't. 

A miniature firework – Weasley's Pocket Bombs, Amaze Your Friends! – went off in front of him, a glittery bang of electric blue that sifted glowing sparkles into his scrambled eggs. Harry jumped, and turned to see George Weasley with an impatient expression. 

"Are you at home, Harry?" 

"I'm here. Uh … what?" 

"Fred and Lee and I wanted to know, were you going back on the Quidditch team? That stupid ban of Umbridge's was officially revoked weeks ago. Ludo Bagman himself came by the shop to tell us. Bought twenty Galleons' worth of joke wands and trick sweets, too." 

Ginny, across the table, was no longer listening to Hermione complain about having to put up with Parvati and Lavender's silly giggling crushes on Firenze the centaur. She was staring at Harry, holding her breath, apprehensive. 

"Don't be daft," Ron said. "Of course he's back on the team." 

"Actually … I thought I'd … give it a miss," Harry said. 

Now even Hermione, who normally ignored all Quidditch talk, stopped mid-sentence and looked at him in amazement. 

"But you love Quidditch," Ron said. "What do you mean, give it a miss?" 

"The team's got a perfectly good Seeker," Harry said, inclining his head toward Ginny. 

"Harry, no, really, I thought I'd try for Chaser this year, I don't mind," Ginny said in a rush. 

"You've got to go out for something," Ron said doggedly. "You could be Chaser, maybe. It won't be the same without you." 

"Oh, Ron, leave it alone," Hermione said. "If Harry doesn't want to be on the team, that's his choice. Besides, it wouldn't hurt him to spend more time on his lessons." 

"Cheers, Hermione," Harry said. "I know I can always count on you to lift me up." 

She pinked, but didn't back down. "You know I'm right. All that practice never left you enough time to really concentrate on your homework." 

"And what about me, then?" Ron asked. "I should quit the team too, I suppose, and become a slave to my schoolbooks like you are?" 

"_You_ never did your homework even _before_ you were on the team," she retorted. "It's a miracle you scraped through with any O.W.L.s at all." 

Fred and George leaned back with identical smirks of amusement. 

"I did all right!" Ron was scarlet to the ears. 

"Only because I took pity on you and loaned you my notes," Hermione said. "I won't do it again." 

"You always say that," Harry said. "You never mean it." 

"I do this time." 

An eerie ringing chime cut through the amiable noise. 

In the far corner of the dining room was a massive grandfather clock of such dark-stained wood and carved with so many crawling imps and slavering gargoyles that it might have been bought at Voldemort's rummage sale. Harry counted himself and Jane lucky that Kreacher hadn't tried to tip this monstrosity over on them. They might still be crushed beneath it if he had. 

Its hands had been frozen at ten to midnight, its pendulums and gears motionless. According to old Tom, the proprietor, the clock had stopped at the exact minute of his wife's death, thirty years before. It only ever chimed these days, Tom had once told Harry in a ghoul's whisper, when someone in the building died. 

It was chiming now. The tone vibrated in Harry's bones and chilled him from the inside out. 

Around the room, everyone fell still and turned toward the clock. Tom had halted in the doorway, a steaming bowl of porridge in his hands. 

"Ah, nuts, not again," he said into the hush. "You'd all best move along while I sort this out." 

Mrs. Weasley hopped to her feet and did a lightning-quick head count around the table. She closed her eyes and exhaled in inexpressible relief that it wasn't one hers, or Hermione or Harry. 

"Oh, dear, what's this, what's the trouble?" Mr. Weasley also got up and went over to Tom. "You're not telling me that's true, your story about that old clock?" 

All around the room arose a babble of voices and the scrape of chair legs on floorboards as everyone abandoned their tables. The mood was a tapestry of curiosity woven through with a few threads of fear, and Harry saw more than one person glance anxiously toward the posters with the photos of the Death Eaters. 

Then it hit him – Jane wasn't here. 

"No," Harry said, so low that only Ginny heard him and shot him an inquisitive look. 

From a side door came a shrill and piercing scream. 

The room was a mad conflicting rush, some people trying to move away from the source of the scream, others toward it. Harry was one of the ones moving toward it. 

The side door opened onto an odd little side courtyard, on the borderland between London proper and Diagon Alley. It was all of sooty brick and the walls fit together in angles and corners that somehow hurt the eye, or the mind. 

Tom led the way, Mr. Weasley at his side and a cluster of people – mostly Gryffindors – at their heels. 

On the steps that led down into the courtyard was a blonde-braided older girl Harry recognized as one of Cho Chang's Ravenclaw friends. She was on her knees with her hands over her face, sobbing hysterically. 

Harry scanned the courtyard, but he didn't see any bodies crumpled on the bricks. At the far end was a second archway guarded by a wrought-iron fence, the space in the arch shimmering faintly. On the other side, Muggles passed back and forth, on foot or on bikes or in cars, never so much as looking through the arch thanks to a permanent Aversion Charm. 

"There, there now," Mr. Weasley said, patting awkwardly at the girl. "Molly, could you …?" 

Mrs. Weasley pushed through the crowd. "Poor dear," she said comfortingly. "Can you tell me what's the matter?" 

The Ravenclaw girl clutched Mrs. Weasley, sobbing harder. "Duh … duh … dead!" 

"No, please, no," said Harry under his breath. 

"What's happened?" he heard Jane say. 

He spun, and there she was in the throng, hair drawn back in the wooden snake ring, face pale, eyes so dark. But alive. Unquestioningly alive. 

"Up there!" whimpered the Ravenclaw girl. She was shaking so that her extended hand and finger jogged all around. 

Mrs. Weasley looked up. Her mouth fell open and the color drained from her face, leaving her white as milk. 

"Mum?" Ron, Fred, George and Ginny said as one. 

"Molly?" Mr. Weasley said. 

She keeled over in a faint. Her husband caught her, and then took his own look up in the direction that the Ravenclaw girl had more or less pointed. His lips pressed down into a line. 

"Bugger!" Tom said, staring upwards as well. 

From his vantage point, still at the top of the short flight of steps, Harry couldn't see. Neither could anyone else, and they all realized this at the same time. There was a surge of movement as they all spilled into the courtyard, turned, and tipped their faces up. 

Several of the girls screamed, and more than a few of the boys did, too. 

Above them, a length of rope extended from one of the third-floor windows. The coarse rope was tied into a hangman's noose. Dangling from it, his head bent at a severe sideways angle, was Theodore Nott. 

Nott's face was purple as a ripe plum. His tongue protruded, and spit dribbled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes bulged round and glassy. His hands swung slack at his sides. 

The third-floor window was open, the rope emerging through it as if tied to the bedpost or some other heavy piece of furniture within. The second-floor window beneath Nott was a spidery web of cracks, as if his heels had struck the panes when he fetched up at the end of the rope. 

Did it count, Harry wondered, to see a dead body? Or did someone actually have to witness the _death_ in order to then be able to glimpse the elusive thestrals? If it was the former, two dozen more students would be able to see the otherwise-invisible beasts when they pulled the carriages from the Hogsmeade station up to the castle this year. 

No, it had to be the actual death. Otherwise, everyone who had been present when he'd reappeared with Cedric Diggory's body in tow – and that was everyone at Hogwarts – would have been affected. He knew for a fact that wasn't true, because only a few of them had raised their hands during Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class. 

"All of you, back inside," Mr. Weasley ordered. "Hurry it up. There's no need to stand around gawking. Fred, you know the neighborhood, go and see about finding a healer –" 

"It's a bit late for that, Dad," Fred said. 

"Do it anyway! And you, George, get these children out of here. They shouldn't be seeing this. Ron, Ginny, help me with your mother. Lee, take this young lady inside and pour her a brandy." 

Lee and the twins looked as stunned as everybody else, but absurdly flattered by being treated as adults in the midst of the crisis. They hurried to obey. Old Tom, meanwhile, had shoved his way back through the crowd and into the building, presumably going upstairs to investigate the room. 

Harry, having been given no instructions, retreated with Hermione to the dining room with the other students and parents. 

"I can't believe it," Hermione said. "Why would anyone hang himself on the first day of the new term?" 

This was such a very Hermione thing to say that Harry couldn't hold back a harsh bark of laughter. "D'you think he should have waited until right before exams?" 

"This isn't funny," she said, glaring icily at him. 

He was on the verge of telling her about his recent encounter with Nott, but stopped himself in time. How would that look? Nott comes to Harry's room, threatens him, and then turns up dead? People might think he had something to do with it. Which was patently absurd … though of course patent absurdity hadn't stopped half the school from deciding he'd been to blame for the basilisk attacks. 

Nott certainly hadn't _seemed_ suicidal, that was the thing. It bothered Harry. Nott had been angry, vengeful. Wanting to get back at Harry for the drastic downturn in his family's fortunes. He had not been despairing, and surely Nott couldn't have imagined that his death would hurt Harry's feelings or something. That was another absurdity. 

The room was a babble of speculation. Some people hurried out to spread the word, and others, hearing it, crowded in to try and see for themselves. A few official-looking wizards showed up, and were escorted upstairs by Tom. 

Fred Weasley returned with a healer. George marshaled the younger students into a semblance of order, taking advantage of his near-legendary status as one of the rebels who'd openly defied the hated Professor Umbridge. Many older girls flocked around the shaking blonde-braided Ravenclaw as she sipped at the large knock of brandy that Lee had poured. 

After depositing Mrs. Weasley in a side chamber with Ginny to take care of her, Mr. Weasley went upstairs and Ron rejoined Harry and Hermione. The three of them drew back into a nook in the fireplace corner. 

"What a madhouse," Ron said. "All for Nott, too." 

"Ronald," scolded Hermione. 

"What?" 

"This is not the time nor place for puns." 

"Huh?" His expression was so honestly baffled that Hermione relented. 

"Never mind," she said. "I can't believe he did it." 

"Look, can I tell you both something?" Harry asked. 

Ron groaned. "I hate it whenever you open with a remark like that, Harry, I really do. It always means bad news." 

He told them, in a hushed voice, about how Nott had paid him a visit. "I just think it's weird. The way he was talking, murder was more on his mind than suicide." 

"Maybe he came to his senses," Ron said. "Realized that he wouldn't stand a chance against you. Opted for the easy way out." 

"People have been saying he's been on the edge lately," Hermione said, gesturing around at the room. "Even so …" 

"Even so, he didn't sound depressed," Harry said. "Why would he kill himself? Why here, and now?" 

"We'll never know, unless he left a note," Ron said. "Pity it wasn't Malfoy, though. But he'd never do the world the favor." 

"Your attitude is abominable, Ron," Hermione said. "We shouldn't be joking. A boy is dead. A schoolmate of ours." 

An expectant silence spread through the dining room, and everyone turned toward the stairs as the officials came down. Mr. Weasley was with them, his normally cheerful face grave. Tom, on the other hand, scanned the crowd greedily and seemed to be calculating in his head how good this tragedy – complete with chiming clock! – would be for his business. 

"Did he leave a note?" called someone in the throng who must've been thinking along the same lines as Ron. 

One of the officials, a thin wizard in forest-green robes, cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Tom waved something in the air above his head. 

"Left this, he did! With his wand snapped in two and sitting on the pages to hold it open. Guess he thought it'd be note enough, at that!" 

The object, fluttering in his grasp, was a copy of the _Quibbler_. 

As everyone correctly surmised just what issue it must be, Harry felt the uncomfortable prickle of their gazes turning toward him. 

To be continued in Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass ... coming Friday, November 12, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	10. Looking Glass

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Ten: Looking Glass   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me

Previously:

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts   Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date  Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress    Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications    Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower    Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley    Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife    Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold    Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott 

* * *

By the time they reached King's Cross Station and joined the students milling around with their trolleys by the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, Harry was once more the center of attention. 

The Leaky Cauldron was quite a large inn, far larger than the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, for instance. Yet even so, Harry was sure that the Leaky Cauldron was not spacious enough to have contained everyone who now swore up and down to have been there when Nott's body was discovered.

Word of how Nott had left his broken wand on the open pages of Harry's interview in the _Quibbler_ had also spread like wildfire. People nodded wisely to one another and said how they all should have seen it coming.

Over his wife's protests, Mr. Weasley had told the rest of the story to Ron, Ginny, Harry and Hermione on the way to the station. "With all the rumors that'll be flying about, Molly, it's best that they have the whole of the truth from me."

Nott's room had been one of the cheapest ones, tucked high under the eaves where the ill-repaired roof lived up to the leaky part of the Leaky Cauldron's name whenever it rained. His clothes and school things, according to Mr. Weasley, had been scattered around the room as if he'd been in the middle of packing. The rope had come from one of the inn's own storage cupboards, and the other end of it had been tied to the bedpost.

The healer who had come to examine the body confirmed that Nott had died of strangulation rather than a broken neck; the drop had been insufficient.

Here, Ginny and Hermione shuddered, and Ron looked as green as Harry felt.

"Arthur! You don't need to tell them _that_!" Mrs. Weasley had gasped, nearly ready to faint again.

"Sorry. Sorry, all," Mr. Weasley said, abashed. "After that, they sent for his mother to make the arrangements. For the funeral, you know."

Hermione hadn't said anything, but she'd gotten a familiar thoughtful frown that Harry and Ron knew well.

At the station, Harry and Ron waited while first Ron's parents, then Ginny and Hermione pushed through the brick barrier to Platform 9 and ¾. Moments later, it was their turn. Ever since the year that Dobby had barred their passage, Harry always tensed as the front of his trolley neared the wall, anticipating a jarring jolt as it refused to yield. But it did, and he and Ron emerged safely.

There stood the Hogwarts Express, scarlet engine gleaming, steam chuffing up from its underside like the breath of a dragon. A clamor of students rushed here and there, saying goodbye to their parents, loading their trunks. Many of them clustered in tight gossipy groups, and turned to look at Harry.

"I hope they don't think _I_ had anything to do with it," he muttered to Ron.

"It is bloody weird," Ron admitted. "That he'd come and tell you off, only to go and hang himself."

"Well, nobody else knows about that," Harry said. "And nobody should hear about it, either. Next thing you know, they'd be saying that I shoved him out the window with that rope around his neck, to make it look like he did it."

"Yeah, but if he told anyone he was going to have it out with you …" Ron trailed off, raising an eyebrow meaningfully.

"I was downstairs having breakfast with you and your family," Harry said, feeling a little cross. "Besides, even if I'd wanted to do anything to Nott, you know me better than to think I'd stage a phony suicide."

Mrs. Weasley gave Ron the usual supply of sandwiches she made him for the trip. No one ever had the heart to tell her that Ron didn't eat them, but joined Harry in gorging on treats from the snack trolley. The waxed-paper wrapped sandwiches, fairly squashed after being stuffed in Ron's pocket for hours, were saved instead to feed to Hagrid's boarhound, Fang.

They all said their goodbyes, got hugs from Mrs. Weasley and hearty claps on the back from Mr. Weasley. Then, as Harry turned to climb onto the train, he came face to face with the white-blond hair and pointed features of Draco Malfoy.

"Potter," Malfoy sneered.

"Malfoy." Harry gave it right back, clipped and curt.

The temperature around them felt like it dropped thirty degrees. Nearby students sensed this and suddenly the two found themselves in the middle of a cleared circle several yards in diameter.

Only Ron, at Harry's elbow, was close. His gaze shifted to Malfoy's slicked-back hair and he smiled meanly. "Couldn't get rid of all the slug-slime, eh?"

Harry wanted to nudge Ron and shut him up. Malfoy's eyes narrowed until they were the slit, beady eyes of a snake, but he only glanced at Ron before looking back at Harry.

"You've gone too far this time, Potter," Malfoy said.

"I haven't done anything," Harry replied coolly.

"Aren't you awfully brave today, Malfoy?" asked Ron. "Without your usual goon squad to back you up?"

"So what happened, Potter?" Malfoy's gaze remained firmly on Harry. "Finally decide to put your teacher's pet reputation to the test, and see if Dumbledore really _will_ let you get away with murder?"

Ron bridled, perhaps as much from being ignored as from what Malfoy was saying. He took a step forward, and Harry seized his arm.

"Trouble, Draco?" A tall, slender woman appeared behind Malfoy. The hem of her robe was trimmed in sable, swirling around her feet.

Her hair was similarly white-blond, her cold and aristocratic beauty marred by the disdainful set of her mouth, as if it pained her to have to mingle with the rabble. She was thinner than she'd been when Harry first saw her at the Quidditch World Cup, her cheekbones sharp as knives.

Narcissa Malfoy's hands settled on her son's shoulders, long pale fingers glittering with rings. One of these rings was a thick gnarl of gold set with a banded black, white and green jewel that resembled an eye. Another was a silver snake with emerald chips for scales. A third, carved from blue-black jet, looked like a spider crouching and ready to pounce. A fourth was a diamond the size of a robin's egg, shifting smoothly through all the colors of the spectrum.

Clearly, Harry had been correct in his guess that whatever privations had befallen the Nott family had not similarly struck down the Malfoys.

He looked from Draco's almost colorless eyes into Narcissa's. An unspoken weight of accusations and violent oaths yearned to spill from him.

Kreacher had gone to _her_, told _her_ of the bond between Sirius and Harry. And she, gladly betraying her own cousin, had wasted no time telling her husband and the other Death Eaters. It was thanks in part to _her_ that Sirius was gone.

For her part, Narcissa was staring back at him with freezing animosity, and probably thinking that thanks to _Harry_, her husband had gone to Azkaban, and the Dark Lord had been denied another victory. Thanks to _Harry_, her son more often than not had to spend the first week of the summer holidays recovering from disfiguring jinxes.

"No, Mother," Malfoy said, with the faintest renewal of his sneer at Harry. "No trouble."

Ron had been as petrified at the sight of Narcissa Malfoy as he would have been if he'd gone up against the basilisk. Or perhaps it was the jet spider on her hand … Ron hated spiders, and was no doubt expecting it to come alive and spring onto him, eight legs skittering.

"Good," Narcissa said, and guided her son toward the train.

As she moved, Harry was sure he saw the eye in her other ring rotate to keep watching him, much in the way that Moody's did. He felt like an icicle had dripped just-melted water down his spine.

"Brr," Ron said. "She's creepy. I'd sooner go up against Crabbe and Goyle any day."

"I'm sure we'll get our chance," Harry said, spotting those selfsame Slytherins waiting for Malfoy by the side of the train.

They were still a right pair of gorillas, Crabbe and Goyle. Every year, they were taller and wider, with more jaw and Neanderthal brow, and less neck. Their knuckles didn't quite drag the ground yet, but it was a near thing.

He and Ron boarded and made their way through the bustling aisles, searching the compartments on both sides. As they did, it occurred to Harry that there was a strange mood in the air, one that couldn't entirely be attributed to Nott's death. It was as if everyone was trying to brace themselves for the new year, not so much looking forward to it as wondering what dreadful things would happen to them next.

Hermione, Ginny, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood were saving them seats in the second-to-last compartment. Harry felt strange seeing the group of them again, his makeshift Department of Mysteries survival society.

A few minutes later, with a great billowing cloud of steam, the scarlet engine pulled out of the station. It was soon chugging briskly along.

"Everyone's talking about Nott," Ginny said.

"And the ones who aren't are talking about Umbridge," Neville added.

"What about her?" Ron asked. "They don't think she's coming back, do they?"

"No," Neville said glumly. "They're wondering who Dumbledore could possibly have found that's worse."

"What do you mean, worse?" Harry asked.

"Well, they've gotten worse every year, haven't they?" Neville held Trevor the toad cradled in both hands, as if to comfort him.

"That's unfair," Ron said. "Lockhart was _loads_ worse than Lupin, and you know it. Quirrell, too."

"Lupin, all right," Neville allowed. "Lupin was good. Still not sure I forgive him for that boggart thing, though …"

"And like it or not," Ginny said, "we _did_ learn a lot from the fake Moody, before he tried to kill Harry."

"Still, though," Neville said. "What if the new one is worse than Umbridge?"

"Impossible," Hermione said. "That woman was horrid."

"Dumbledore would have to hire a Death Eater, or Voldemort himself, to find anyone worse," Harry agreed, pleased by how few of them flinched at the name. "And trust me, Neville, he wouldn't."

"Here," Ron said, changing the subject. "Let's see your new wand, Neville. Harry told me it's a nice one."

Proudly, Neville showed off his new wand and the others dutifully exclaimed over it. Harry wondered if Neville's spell casting ability would improve now that he had one attuned to him, rather than using his father's old one – Frank Longbottom, sadly, had no further use for a wand.

"My father says that the new teacher is a princess from a magical island," Luna Lovegood said dreamily.

Harry almost laughed and turned it into a cough instead.

"Really?" Neville's eyes were wide.

Luna turned her copy of the _Quibbler_ so they could see the artist's rendering, which showed busty witches in scanty armor, riding winged unicorns above a towering Mayan-style pyramid. The headline asked, "Amazon Witches of the Bermuda Triangle???"

This time, Harry did laugh, and only got himself under control when the snacks trolley rolled to a stop at their compartment door.

As usual, he bought a sampling of everything, and the next hour was passed merrily enough as they swapped Chocolate Frog cards and dared each other to eat the most noxious Every-Flavor Beans they could find.

"Did you hear?" Neville broke in, suddenly indignant. "There's a company doing a deck of Dark Wizard cards! In suits and all, with the court cards and aces being Death Eaters!"

"You're joking!" Harry had heard on the news of the Muggles doing such things, decks with international terrorists and serial killers and other criminals and politicians, and had thought it was in incredibly bad taste.

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard," Hermione said.

"With … with You-Know-Who on the ace of spades," Neville said. His voice quaked with rage. "And … and _her_, Harry, that Lestrange woman, as the queen of spades. I thought I might get one of her and use it as a dart board."

As much as Harry hated Bellatrix Lestrange, he supposed Neville's cause for hate was even better. Bellatrix had killed Sirius, but she had tortured Neville's parents into lifelong insanity, leaving them little better than mindless shambling husks in the long-term ward of St. Mungo's.

"Who'd do something like that? It's stupid and sensationalistic," Ginny said hotly.

Hermione glanced quickly at Luna, her expression suggesting that she wouldn't be at all shocked to learn that the editor of the _Quibbler_ was behind this latest tacky scheme.

But Luna's slightly bulging eyes were astonished. "How horrible," she said.

After a while, Harry needed to get up and stretch his legs. He wandered the train's corridor, stopping here and there to say hi to fellow Gryffindors and various members of the DA. Most who hadn't already done so asked him the same two questions over and over – was he going to take back his place on the Quidditch team? and were they going to resume the DA?

He passed one compartment packed with Slytherins, instantly recognizing Draco Malfoy's drawling voice even through the closed door. A peek through the inset window showed him that Jane was there, too, sitting in the window corner beside Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, with her hands folded on her lap and her dark ponytail lying over one shoulder as she gazed out at the scenery.

She looked pensive and pretty, and for a moment he felt a wild urge to bust in there and get her away from the Slytherins. He quelled it. She could handle herself among them. She'd been doing it for years. The last thing she would need or want would be a rescue from Harry "saving-people-thing" Potter. When all was said and done, she'd still have to live with the Slytherins, and all he could do would be to make things difficult for her if he ever let on that they were in the least bit friendly.

Jane lifted her gaze and shifted her focus slightly, and Harry suddenly knew that she was no longer looking at the scenery – dramatic though it was, with the train speeding over a high trestle across a gorge where waterfalls plunged in frothing whiter cataracts through sheer granite clefts – but had seen his ghostly reflection in the glass.

One of her hands moved from her lap to her pocket, touching the squarish bulge. The corner of her mouth turned up.

Harry hurried by. If she could see him, the others might catch a glimpse as well, and he did not need another confrontation with the Slytherins just now. He thought about Jane – so she had found the mirror and the note he'd slipped into her pocket. Would she use it?

He reached the front of the car and opened the door. Wind and noise whooshed around him. He stepped out onto the platform between this car and the one ahead of it, a platform with chest-high railings and a roof but otherwise open sides. The air was cool and misty from the spray of the many waterfalls. He could look down and see the dizzying drop of the gorge, the spindly wooden trestle supports, the river churning away far, far below.

No one else was out here. It was loud, and the platform was not fitted with shock absorbers, so he could feel the ratcheting vibration of the train as it rattled swiftly along the tracks.

Then he heard, or thought he did, Jane's voice speaking his name.

It came from his pocket. From the other mirror, which he'd put there just prior to leaving the Leaky Cauldron.

"—Potter had something to do with it?" she was asking. Her tone was soft, almost deferential.

Harry took the mirror out of his pocket and looked into it, noting that it still bore faint hairline cracks that his repair spell hadn't entirely erased, the reminders of the time he had flung it into his trunk with such force that the mirror had shattered.

He saw not himself in the dark glass but Jane, adjusting her ponytail and smoothing her bangs. She smiled – to anyone else, it must have looked as though she was pleased with her hair – and lowered the mirror, tilting it.

Now he no longer saw Jane, but a view very similar to the one he could see from this rattling platform between the train cars. The Hogwarts Express reached the far end of the gorge and was enveloped in deep forest shadows and flashes of sunlight.

Except in the mirror, he could also see the occupants of the compartment. She was holding the mirror casually, so that its surface pointed toward the window. No one else could see his image, but he could see their translucent reflections in the glass.

Yes … there was Draco Malfoy, slouching in the seat nearest the door and rolling his wand between his palms. Crabbe and Goyle hulked on the bench across from Malfoy, and Pansy Parkinson sat beside him. Harry recognized two other members of the Slytherin Quidditch team. One was Tiberius Flint, former team captain Marcus Flint's younger brother, who looked just as mean and almost as ugly. There was also a squinty-eyed girl with a scruffy black lop-eared cat on her lap, sitting near Millicent Bulstrode.

Malfoy laughed, and the others followed suit. "Do I think Potter had anything to do with it?" he echoed.

She had activated the mirror by saying his name in the course of her question, Harry realized. Clever indeed.

"Maybe he didn't _throw_ Nott out the window," Malfoy went on, "but mark me, he had _something_ to do with it, all right. Nott didn't kill himself. He didn't have the guts."

Harry could have laughed, but he knew that if he could hear them, they might be able to hear him. As it was, the rushing of the wind and the clatter of the wheels on the tracks was so loud that he worried they might notice. But the Slytherins were, as always, hanging on Malfoy's every word.

"I've known him for ages," Malfoy said indifferently. "Our families go way back, and his mother had the nerve – or maybe had gotten enough courage out of a firewhiskey bottle – to come and ask _my_ mother for help."

"Help?" Goyle's massive brow furrowed. "Help with what?"

"Charity," Malfoy said like it was a dirty word. "Can you believe it? Old Lady Nott thought that we'd take them in, her and her brats, once they'd burned through their money and gotten chucked out of their house."

"Some people have no class," Pansy Parkinson said.

She had, Harry saw, taken to wearing her hair tied with a bow, and with her already froggish features, this made her look alarmingly like Dolores Umbridge. He doubted it was accidental. Pansy had been one of Umbridge's finks last year.

"My mother sent her packing, of course," Malfoy said. "But Nott told me that he meant to deal with Potter himself. Said he could do a better job of it than we ever did."

Crabbe either rumbled disapprovingly deep in his throat, or his stomach growled. Harry couldn't be sure.

"How uppity! I'm glad he's dead," Pansy said. "Imagine, criticizing _you_, Draco! When did Nott ever do one thing against Potter? He just sat back and watched while you took all the risks."

"That's right," Malfoy said, sticking his sharp chin out defiantly. "If I'd _wanted_ to kill Potter, believe me, I would have a long time ago."

"Yeah," grunted Goyle. "Weasel-King, too."

"I knew it had to be something like that," Jane said, sounding appropriately awed and impressed. "I knew you had to have some reason for leaving him alive."

"The Dark Lord wants him alive," Malfoy said, puffing up in venomous self-importance. "My father told me as much. The Dark Lord wants to exact his revenge personally. Next time, you can bet Potter won't be able to squirm his way out."

"The lucky bastard," Jane said, and Harry imagined her hard-edged smile. He smiled, too.

"Lucky is right!" Malfoy said. "Certainly _skill's_ got nothing to do with it."

"Certainly not," murmured Jane.

"Dumbledore always coming to the rescue," Pansy said, sounding like she was rolling her eyes. "Or some other stupid, impossible, lucky escape."

"_Deus ex machina_," Crabbe said.

The Slytherins all stared at him, open-mouthed. Harry was dumbstruck, too. Had that really come from _Crabbe_? Of all people?

"God in the machine," Crabbe explained slowly, seeing them gaping at him. "It's what you call those stupid, impossible lucky escapes."

"How do _you_ know _that_?" Malfoy demanded.

In the window reflection, Harry saw Crabbe shrug.

"He's right, though," the squinty-eyed girl said. Harry thought her name was Nadine Zellis, another of the girls in Ginny's year. "In Greek plays, when the hero got his Quaffles in a crack, they'd lower down a throne all decked with flowers and lift him up out of harm's way. To show the gods' intervention."

Over the snickering of the other Quidditch players at the Quaffle reference, Malfoy snapped, "I hope you're not calling Potter a _hero_!"

She blanched. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Potter doesn't have Quaffles," snorted Tiberius Flint. He held his thumb and forefinger a tiny way apart. "He's got little golden Snitches."

Pansy Parkinson cawed with laughter.

"What he's _got_," Malfoy said, "is Dumbledore in love with him. Not to mention that great oaf Hagrid. Even the Minister of Magic is fawning all over Potter again. It's enough to make me sick. They all think he's so bloody special."

"What will You-Know-Who do to him, do you know?" Jane asked.

"Whatever it is, I hope it's slow and painful." Malfoy stroked back his hair. "And I hope I can be there to see it."

"Us, too," Goyle said, and Crabbe nodded.

"They all deserve it," Malfoy said. "Potter most of all, but Longbottom, and the Weasleys, and that loudmouthed Mudblood know-it-all Granger, too. And everyone in their idiotic Defense club. A fat lot of good that'll do them when the Death Eaters and the dementors lead the first attacks."

"We should start our _own_ club," Pansy said. "A proper Dark Arts club, that's what I think. You could teach it, Draco."

He affected a look of transparently false modesty. "I do know a spell or two …"

"Yeah!" Tiberius Flint said. "Snape'd sign off on it, I'm sure he would."

"We could be ready," Nadine Zellis said. "Then, when the Death Eaters and dementors come, we'd be there to help. I'd _love_ to curse McGonagall. The old hag gave me failing marks in Transfiguration last term, and all because the trap-jaw I was turning into a jewelry box bit the tip off her finger."

"A Dark Arts club," mused Jane. "That would be interesting."

The others all voiced their agreement. Just then, the train swept into a sharp curve, and Harry had to grab for the railing while tucking the mirror against his chest. He knew that curve, which signified the Hogwarts Express' final approach to the village station.

"We'd better get ready," Pansy said.

Jane brought the mirror up as if to check her hair one last time. Harry waved to her, and mouthed, "Thanks!"

She gave the most barely perceptible of nods, then skimmed her fingertips over the dark glass. At once, his mirror clouded, and when it cleared again, it showed only his own reflection.

Harry put it back in his pocket. He hadn't learned a lot, but it was a start … and if Malfoy did form a Dark Arts club, he could find out everything that went on at their meetings. The only aspect of that which was bothersome was that Jane would have to join, would have to be involved. He didn't like the thought of her endangering herself to get information to him.

And it would be dangerous … dangerous in many ways. Did she have any idea of the fine line she'd have to walk?

He returned to the compartment where Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna were pulling their black school robes on over their clothes. As he donned his own, Harry almost told them what he'd seen and heard, but stopped himself. He didn't want to have to explain why he'd given the mirror to Jane. Ron's feelings might be hurt, and Ginny might scold.

And even if Hermione continued her surprising support of Harry's association with Jane, she might decide that the best way to deal with Malfoy's Dark Arts club would be to go straight to a teacher, report it, and nip it in the bud. Hermione was all in favor of breaking the rules for a good cause, or when the rules themselves were punitive and senseless ones set in place by someone like Umbridge. Under those circumstances, she became not just a rebel but a genuine crusader. This, though … saying nothing and allowing such a club to form so that Harry could, with Jane's help, keep an eye on what they were up to … he didn't think Hermione would be comfortable with it.

The train slowed and came to a steam-puffing stop at the Hogsmeade station. Night had fallen and lights twinkled at every building but the dismal Shrieking Shack, perched on its lonely hill against the rising moon. As the students began to disembark, Harry heard the welcome and familiar sound of Hagrid's booming voice calling to the first-years, rounding them up for their traditional trip across the lake.

For the rest of them, the carriages awaited. The harnessed thestrals stamped and tossed their heads, wiry manes rippling, eyes shining blue-white, leathery wings folded against their bony black hides.

A few yards ahead of him, Harry saw a girl stop short. Her hands flew to her face and covered her mouth. Above them, her eyes were wide with fright. It was the blonde-braided Ravenclaw girl, the one whose screams had alerted everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

Without discussing it, Harry and Neville and Luna moved to her side.

"It's all right," Neville said.

"The … the … carriages …"

"We see them too," Harry told her.

"They've always pulled the carriages," Luna added in her off-hand way. "Last year, Cecily, you walked right in front of one."

"But they're … horrible!"

"They're not so bad," Neville said earnestly, and patted her on the arm. "Really, they're not. Come on. Ride with us, and you'll see."

"I wondered," Hermione said, moving up beside Harry as Neville and Luna escorted the trembling Ravenclaw girl toward the nearest carriage. "I wondered whether any of the rest of us would be able to see them now."

"You don't?" Harry asked.

Ron and Ginny shook their heads. So did Hermione. They had seen Nott's body, but they hadn't seen him actually die. Nor had any of them witnessed it when Sirius had fallen backward through the whispering black veil. Hermione, though, had nearly died herself in the Department of Mysteries. She had taken a Killing Curse full to the chest, and only the fact that the Death Eater who'd cast it had been unable to use his voice had reduced the effectiveness of the curse enough to let her survive.

The four of them climbed into an empty coach. "Did you see that?" Ron asked as they started to move. "Neville talked to a girl."

"He talks to girls all the time," Hermione said.

"To girls he knows, yeah," Ron said. "But he was holding her hand as they got in the carriage. What's happened to him? It's like he's not the same old Neville."

"He isn't the same old Neville," Harry said. "None of us are the same. How could we be, after what we did? I say, good for Neville. He came through in a big way in the Department of Mysteries. You all did, but Neville most of all. I wouldn't ever have expected it of him, but he was a lion."

"It's certainly given him confidence," Hermione said. "And not only that. Remember how he was during the DA lessons? And during our O.W.L.s? Now he's got a new wand that's suited to him. I rather think we'll be seeing a very different Neville Longbottom this year."

"He's cuter, too," Ginny said, with an impish grin at Ron because she knew that it drove him mad any time his little sister talked about boys. "The broken nose gives him character. Makes him look … I don't know … daring."

"It's just Neville!" Ron blustered. "Besides, I thought you fancied Dean Thomas."

"A woman has the prerogative to change her mind," Ginny said loftily.

"Girls are evil," Ron said to Harry. "I'm sure of it now."

"Oh, Ron, for goodness' sake," said Hermione. "Just because you don't understand something doesn't make it evil."

"She's right about that," Harry said.

"Blimey," Ron grumbled, sliding down in his seat. "You won't catch _me_ asking a girl out, I can tell you!"

"We all saw how well that worked at the Yule Ball in our fourth year," Hermione said, with more than a touch of acid.

"Don't remind me!" Ron made an awful face. "Parvati's sister is still mad at me about that, and I still can't believe I tried to ask Fleur to the dance."

"Maybe you're asking the wrong girls," Ginny said.

Hermione sniffed. "Oh, Ginny, don't encourage him. Maybe he'll grow up someday, but until then, it'd be doing us all a favor –"

"Oy!" Ron sat up again. "Very nice, Hermione! It's not like I've asked _you_ out! So why not keep your nose in your own business, all right?"

"Be that way, then," she said, and crossed her arms in a quick, angry movement.

"I can ask a girl out if I want," Ron said. "Fact is, I was planning to. First Hogsmeade weekend."

"Just, whatever you do, steer clear of the tea shop," Harry said darkly.

"What girl?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron.

"Um …"

Ginny had been watching this with the avid back-and-forth attentiveness of someone at a tennis match. Her eyes twinkled. "Luna," she said.

"Huh?" Ron rounded on her. "Loony Lovegood? Me and Loony Lovegood?"

"Honestly, Ginny!" Hermione cried.

"What?" Ginny was all innocence. "She likes Ron, likes him a lot. Look at how she's always laughing at his lame jokes."

"That hardly proves anything," Hermione said, "except that Luna's soft in the head. She's nice enough, don't snarl at me like that, Harry, but not quite right. You can't deny it."

"So she's eccentric," Ginny said. "So what?"

"So what is what do you mean she likes me?" Ron blurted. "She didn't tell you so, did she?"

"Not in so many words, but I can tell." Ginny's eyes twinkled even brighter. "I'm right about Lupin and Tonks, and I'm right about Luna."

"Hmph!" Hermione said, and turned to look out the window at the castle that had appeared in the distance.

"All I'm saying, Ron," Ginny continued, "is that if you really are looking for a girl to ask to Hogsmeade, and you're worried about asking one who'd say no, then why not try Luna? I guarantee she'd accept."

"Hmph!" Hermione said, louder. "And then Harry can ask Moaning Myrtle, because everyone knows Moaning Myrtle is crazy about Harry!"

"What's the matter with you?" Ron asked.

"Nothing! But just because someone _likes_ you doesn't mean it's necessarily a good idea to ask that someone out on a date."

Ron looked at Harry, gesturing with helpless bafflement. Harry shrugged. He had no idea.

Ginny only sat back with a satisfied smile.

Then it hit Harry. What she was up to. He stared at Ginny, thunderstruck. She saw him, and her smile widened, and she winked.

To be continued in Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water ... coming Friday, November 19, 2004.

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_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	11. Hot Water

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Eleven: Hot Water   
Christine Morgan

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Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me.

Previously:

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass 

* * *

_(special author's note -- this chapter is pretty graphic and gross, not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach; please be warned)_

The carriages rolled to a stop at the foot of the long flight of stone steps that ascended into Hogwarts. Doors swung open, and students, many of them oblivious to the white-eyed thestrals they passed within inches of, piled out.

Above them, the castle towered dark and dazzling with some of its many windows ablaze and its spires jabbing black silhouettes against the sky. The grounds rustled and whispered in the grip of a wind that sent ripples over the grassy grounds and across the inky depths of the lake. Peering that way, Harry glimpsed the firefly flicker of lamps on the boats that carried the first-years.

He let himself be caught up in the moving black-clad tide of robed boys and girls, up the steps and into the cavernous front hall of Hogwarts where portraits waved from the walls and the staircases slid with ominous grating sounds into new positions. Somewhere above in the shadows, out of sight but not earshot, Peeves the Poltergeist jeered and cackled.

Argus Filch, the caretaker, stood on one of the upper landings with his cat Mrs. Norris cradled in his arms. Filch wore a look even more bitter and sour than usual. Filch had really liked serving under Umbridge, had even almost been allowed to start whipping students for disobedience or trotting out worse punishments.

Now all of that was gone, his hope and glory snatched away from him, and it showed in every deep and disappointed line of his face.

The doors to the Great Hall stood open, the glow of hundreds of floating candles spilling down. The polished wooden surfaces of the long House tables and the empty, expectant golden dishes and goblets, gleamed in the firelight. Harry filed in with the others and took his accustomed place, midway down the Gryffindor table beneath a scarlet-and-yellow lion banner.

At the head of the room, the staff table was positioned crossways to the other four, and Harry could see the various members of the Hogwarts faculty already in their seats. His gaze found the hook-nosed visage of Severus Snape, his least-favorite teacher and in the running for his top ten least-favorite people in the whole wide world. Snape, his oily black hair hanging lank around his shoulders, did not look Harry's way.

Harry scanned the other familiar faces. There was tiny Professor Flitwick, perched on a chair that had been stacked with thick books to bring him up to table level. And Professor McGonagall, in a high-collared forest green robe with her hair pinned back in a severe bun. Next to her was the cheery, rotund figure of Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher.

And there was Albus Dumbledore. His robes were a dark, rich purple sewn with sparkling silver and gold thread, and his long white hair and beard surrounded him with a faintly radiant nimbus. Half-moon spectacles perched at the end of his long thin nose.

Last year, when the bond between Harry and Voldemort had been at its strongest, Harry had been barely able to gaze upon the headmaster without experiencing the violent urge to bite, to hurt, to kill. He did not feel it now, but was glumly unsurprised to still feel a surge of anger rising like bile in his throat.

Snape wasn't looking at Harry, and that was fine. That was good. Harry could happily go all year without Snape looking at him.

But Dumbledore wasn't looking at him either. Dumbledore seemed to be purposefully fixing his attention on the other tables, and avoiding meeting Harry's eyes.

Three seats down from Dumbledore sat Gwenna Golden. Her hands were folded on the table in front of her, and she held her head high as she surveyed the room. She wore a loose sleeveless robe in the bold colors of a tropical sunset. Spiral gold armbands graced her tanned upper arms. Around her neck was a broad, flat golden torc set with polished semiprecious stones. Her dark hair had been braided into a coronet and adorned with brilliant-pink bird of paradise flowers.

The students, all of whom were by now well used to the fact that they never had the same Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher two years running, nudged each other and gestured toward her and muttered amongst themselves in interested speculation.

The doors opened again, and in came Hagrid in his moleskin waistcoat, leading a wide-eyed gaggle of first-years. Harry marveled at how young they all looked, or maybe it was that he marveled to think he'd ever been that young himself. Six years ago, he'd been in that group, following the bearded giant into a huge room where the ceiling was enchanted to mimic the night sky outside, and the curious faces of many strangers had turned to follow him.

Now, here he was at the other end of things. It simultaneously seemed that the years had gone by in an instant, and that far too much had happened, far too much had changed, for it to have been a mere six years. He had seen so much … learned so much … _done_ so much!

And yet, really, although he was closing in on his final year at Hogwarts, he was no closer to knowing what he was actually going to do with his life than he'd been when he had walked in here a scrawny eleven-year-old.

Mulling on this, he barely noticed as Professor McGonagall brought out the same old stool and the same old bent, creased, grimy Sorting Hat. He didn't hear the Hat's singsong message, and was only vaguely aware of the new young Gryffindors taking their places at the table, all of them blushing to the vigorous applause and looking bewildered but pleased.

Then Dumbledore was rising, smiling his wise and benevolent smile, and inviting them to tuck into the wonderful welcoming feast. The tables groaned suddenly under the weight of the food that had magically appeared, and a babble of cheery conversation filled the room, punctuated by the clink of serving utensils as everyone heaped their plates with cuts of meat, roasted potatoes, buttery ears of corn, slabs of bread drenched in honey, stewed fruit, golden-crisp chicken, and other delicious items.

Harry ate with the rest of them, rousing himself from his thoughtful funk long enough to congratulate a giddily anxious Colin Creevey on being named one of Gryffindor's two prefects. It only then dawned on Harry that Ginny must not have made prefect, because if she had he was sure he would have heard all about it, and Mrs. Weasley would have been beside herself with delight.

He stole a sidelong look at Ginny, who was sitting with her fellow fifth-year girls. One of them was laughing and preening and tossing her hair, showing off the shining silver badge pinned to the front of her robes. If Ginny was bothered, she didn't show it, but Harry felt badly for her all the same. He remembered how it had stung last year when Ron had been named prefect instead of Harry himself. For Ginny, who also had her parents to think about, it was probably worse. With the notable and deserving exception of Fred and George, all of her brothers had been prefects.

At last, the feasting was finished and the tables cleared, and Dumbledore rose again to give his customary speech. He introduced Professor Golden, and for the first time Harry wondered where little Arcturus was. Had the baby been brought to Hogwarts? And if so, who would be caring for him while his mother taught? Who was caring for him now?

Little mention was made of the previous year, and the various and terrible things the students had suffered under Umbridge. It was almost as if the entire past year hadn't happened, that they were all going to pretend it had been a dream, and move on from here with no further ado.

"I am pleased to announce," Dumbledore said, "that our own Professor Trelawney has been reinstated as Divinations teacher."

At the Gryffindor table, this news elicited groans from Ron and Hermione, and a mixture of gladness and dismay from Lavender and Parvati, both of whom had been quite partial to Professor Trelawney and partial in an entirely different way to her replacement.

"What about Firenze?" Parvati cried, giving voice to what many of the Hogwarts girls seemed to be thinking. "You haven't sent him back to the other centaurs, have you?"

"They'd kill him," Harry murmured. "Kick him to death, stave in his ribs and skull and trample him."

Hermione, pale, nodded. They'd seen for themselves what the wrath of centaurs could be like. Firenze was lucky to be alive. For that matter, _they_ were lucky to be alive. If Hagrid's full-giant half-brother Grawp hadn't intervened, he and Hermione might have felt for themselves what it was like to be on the receiving end of a centaur's lethal hooves.

Dumbledore held up his hands, palms out, for silence. "Professor Firenze has graciously agreed to stay on," he said, with a hint of a smile. "In his new capacity, he will be teaching Magical Philosophy and Non-Human Relations."

The girls cooed, tittered, and sighed. Across at the Slytherin table, Harry had a glimpse of Malfoy sneering, and no doubt saying something derogatory to Crabbe and Goyle, who flanked him.

"On a more somber note," Dumbledore said, his face turning serious, "we're all deeply saddened by the loss of Theodore Nott, of Slytherin House, who died this morning at Diagon Alley."

An uncomfortable hush fell over the hall. By then, of course, the story had to have gotten around to everyone on the Hogwarts Express, told and doubtless embellished beyond recognition by those who'd been at the Leaky Cauldron. A watery gasp from the Ravenclaw table marked Cecily's position, and when Harry turned his head he saw her covering her face with a napkin while the girl next to her patted her on the back.

After letting the hush stretch out for a few seconds, Dumbledore went on to remind them once again of the school rules, then dismissed them to their respective dormitories.

Colin bounded up. "All right, Harry?"

"Yeah, Colin."

"Would you mind?" Colin, blushing again, held out his camera. "I've got to take the first years to Gryffindor tower. My first official duty and all. I'd … if you would, please … for posterity?"

Stifling a sigh, Harry lifted the camera to his eyes and snapped a few photos of Colin, puffed up with self- importance, marshaling his charges into a neat line. He gave the camera to Colin's brother Dennis when he was done, and joined Ron, Hermione and Ginny in the crowd moving toward the stairs.

The Gryffindor common room, guarded by the portrait of the Fat Lady, was the same as ever, with its cheery fire and overstuffed armchairs. Harry, full and logy from the feast, followed Ron, Dean, Neville and Seamus up to their same round room with its four-poster beds.

He pulled on his pajamas, so stuffed for the moment that all he cared about was how good it was going to feel sinking into the mattress and pillows. He got into the bed, drew the curtains shut, set his wand and his glasses on the bedside table, and was asleep almost before his hand let go of them.

Some time later, Harry was shaken awake in the darkness.

"Huh?"

"Harry!" squeaked a high, frightened voice. "Harry, you've got to … you've got to come, you've got to help!"

His eyelids felt coated with lead. He didn't know what time it was, and could only see a shadow-shape beside him. The undisturbed snores from the other beds let him quickly place the others, still asleep.

Groping for glasses and wand, he poked the former onto his face and illuminated the tip of the latter. "_Lumos_."

The faint light showed him who it was that stood, half in and half out of the curtains around his bed. Colin Creevey, in yellow striped pajamas and fuzzy, weirdly apt bumblebee slippers, was bent over him with a hand on his shoulder. Colin's blond hair was all over the place in corkscrews that made even Harry's unkempt black hair look tame by comparison, and Colin's blue eyes were swimming with shock.

"Colin?" Harry blinked and frowned. "Colin, what's the matter?"

"You have to come!" squeaked Colin again, sounding as if he had a teakettle whistle lodged in his throat. "The … the bathroom, Harry! In the bathroom!"

"What is?"

"Please!" Tugging at him, chin quivering, Colin was on the verge of crying.

"Sure, okay," Harry said. He sat up, swung his legs out of bed, and saw that the sky beyond the window was still inky black and spangled with stars. "Colin, it's the middle of the night."

Colin didn't reply, only hurried toward the door, wringing his hands and throwing back anxious looks over his shoulder. Harry shuffled after him, yawning.

As they descended the dormitory stairs, Harry heard a whispery scramble and a series of quick pops. By the time he and Colin reached the common room, he saw it half-tidied in the warm glow of the fireplace embers and understood that they had interrupted the house-elves at work.

"What's this all about, Colin?" he asked, awake enough now to really comprehend the depth of Colin's distress. "Are you sick? Do you need to go to the hospital wing? I can get Madame Pomfrey –"

"The bathroom," Colin repeated, ducking through the Fat Lady's portrait hole. "I didn't know who else to … you have to see … I …" Trailing off, he shook his head and bit his lip.

Sleepy, grumbling figures in paintings snapped at them as they went along the halls with their wands lit. Harry thought longingly of the Marauder's Map … they could get in trouble if they were found wandering the castle this late, and although it was a fresh new year, he didn't relish the idea of starting off with detention. His luck, it'd be Filch to find them.

Or Snape.

Harry shuddered and looked around, almost sure that he would see Snape materialize out of the darkness in a billow of black cloak, thin lips drawn back in a triumphant sneer. All he saw was a bleary Sir Cadogan, hopping on one leg as he tried to buckle on his armor over comical polka-dot undershorts. "Stand and deliver, scurvy knave! Thou'st disturbed my slumber and must answer in honorable combat!" the knight called after them.

"Hey, wait," Harry said. "Colin, if you had to go to the bathroom, why not use the one in Gryffindor tower?"

But he got his answer a moment later as they rounded a corner and he saw the door to the prefects' bathroom up ahead. Harry had been in there before, when Cedric Diggory had given him a hint about the dragon's egg during the Triwizard Tournament. Strictly speaking, it should have been off-limits to Harry, since he'd only been a fourth-year at the time.

Wordlessly, actually trembling all over now, Colin extended an arm and pointed at the bathroom door.

"What's in there?" Harry asked warily. Colin looked like Marley's ghost, if Marley's ghost had been a small teenage boy in bumblebee slippers. He grasped Colin by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. "Colin! Tell me!"

"It's the prefects' bathroom," Colin said in a faint, faraway voice. "I'd heard about it, and I thought I'd sneak in there tonight and have a bath. To celebrate my first day as a prefect, right, Harry? So I got my towel and my soap and everything, and … and I came down here. But … but … then I saw."

Realizing that it'd be quicker and easier to just look, Harry strode to the door and pushed it open.

The bathroom was dark, the air was dripping with humidity. His glasses instantly fogged over. He could hear water gushing full-force from the taps.

The rising steam was thick with an odor that made Harry's nose wrinkle. It wasn't a smell he associated with soap, or even with astringent cleansers. It was a richer smell, a … a coppery smell … a meaty, simmering stew of a smell.

He wiped the lenses of his glasses, and tapped them with his wand. "_Impervius_!"

Here was the bathroom, just as he remembered. A gilt-framed painting of a mermaid dominated one wall, the mermaid's hair strategically draped to cover her bare, buxom upper torso. Her sleek fishtail was curled beneath her as she slept, head pillowed on folded arms, snoring with a dainty bubbling noise.

His wandlight glimmered over the surface of the bathtub, which really was far more swimming pool than mere tub. The fixtures, arcing gold pipes that could release streams of water at different temperatures as well as varieties of sudsy foam, sparkled.

But … something was wrong. The way the water caught the light was … yes, it was wrong. It was … too dark.

Breath catching in his throat like cloth snagged on a thorn, Harry inched into the room and raised his wand higher.

The water … wasn't water anymore.

It was …

Broth.

Harry's gorge rose in a greasy lurch. He locked his jaws against the urge to vomit.

All the taps were cranked to their hottest settings, so the scalding-hot water was … was cooking the body that floated – facedown, spread-eagle, and slowly revolving in the current – at the center of the pool. The liquid was tinged with red, and a reddish foam had built up along the edges. Harry was nauseatingly reminded of the scummy residue that rose to the surface when Aunt Petunia boiled a chicken for soup.

His nerves were shrieking at him to go, to run, to get out of here before that meaty stench overwhelmed him. But Harry made himself move closer to the pool. His foot struck something. He looked down to see a litter of bathing supplies. Colin's towel, a bottle of shampoo, soap.

A bit further on, another towel had been set neatly folded on a bench, and next to it a bathrobe hung on a hook.

One more object sat at the very edge of the pool. It kicked back Harry's wandlight in tiny glittering flickers. A razor blade, clean silver where it wasn't running crimson.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Colin asked in a wavering voice. "I knew as soon as I saw him … he's dead."

The body in the pool revolved, revolved. The arms splayed out to its sides were turned palms-down, but Harry didn't need to see to know that the wrists would be cut, and probably even the undersides of the forearms would be slashed, too, lengthwise, gaping in raw-lipped red gashes.

The heroic thing to do would be to leap in, to wrestle the body over and get it out of the pool. After all, he might not be dead, he _might_ not, even bobbing facedown with his life's blood making a stew in the near-boiling water … there _might_ still be time.

But Harry couldn't bring himself to do it.

Because there _wasn't_ time. Anyone could see that. Even if the boy in the pool had still been alive when Colin had first walked in, he would have bled to death or drowned or died of the scalding burns by the time Colin ran all the way back to Gryffindor tower, woke Harry, and dragged him back here.

The boy in the pool was dead.

"Yes," Harry said, barely sounding like himself. "He's dead. Colin … why … why didn't you go for … someone … an adult … Filch? Or McGonagall? Or Dumbledore?"

"I … I didn't think of it," Colin said. "I mean … you're Harry Potter."

A wild, crazy laugh that was really mostly a scream issued from Harry. He raked a hand through his hair, which was damp from the steam … and the thought that clanged in his head like a bell was that it was _on_ him, the steam, coating him with wetness that carried infinitesimal fragments of blood and … and that unspeakable _broth_.

"That doesn't make me a damned miracle worker!" he cried.

"But we've got to do something!" Colin saw his cry and raised him a wail, which rebounded from the tiles and echoed around the bathroom. On the wall, the mermaid blew a big round bubble, sighed, and turned over so that her back was to them.

Harry slapped his own face. It was the only thing he could think of to keep from losing his mind and his supper in the same shattering instant of madness. The sharp report echoed as well, but it cut through the spinning horror.

"Turn off the water," he barked.

"Good, yeah, I'll do that," Colin said, bobbing his head.

As Colin hurried to the task, Harry turned around. "Myrtle!" he called. "Myrtle? Are you there?"

The taps went off, the gushing water stopped, and a suffocating damp silence was only broken by the plink of drips. Colin also turned on the lights, though Harry immediately wished he hadn't. The lights, dim though they were, showed too much and in a stark, terrible clarity.

A ghostly-grey girl's head poked through the door of one of the lavatory stalls. She wore glasses and braids and a slightly outdated Hogwarts uniform. Her miserable pout brightened into a coquettish smile. "Hi, Harry. I thought I heard your voice through the pipes. What are you –"

Then her gaze took in Colin, and the rest of the scene. Her mouth fell open.

"We need help," Harry said. "Can you get Dumbledore, or somebody?"

"Who's _that_?" Myrtle howled in disgust. "He's naked and ugly and messing up my bathroom!"

Colin, inanely, said, "This is the _boys'_ bathroom! The boy _prefects'_ bathroom!"

"Never mind that!" Harry shouted – and thought that even if none of them went for help, sooner or later someone would come investigate the commotion. A split-second later, the mermaid on the wall woke up, looked around, saw the blood-pool, and began to shriek.

Myrtle's question suddenly hit Harry. "Who's that?" she had said.

Who was it?

He had tried not to look very hard at the body, but dread gripped his heart and he made himself turn to the pool again.

Just then, the door banged open and in rushed the very people Harry had been fearing would catch him and Colin in their nocturnal wanderings. Now, though, he was glad to see Filch, and even Snape.

Filch's feet slid to a halt on the wet tile, and for a moment the issue was in doubt … he seemed likely to go flat on his backside. He caught himself and stood wheezing, clutching at his chest.

Snape paused for one single stunned moment, then swept past Colin – and _through_ Myrtle without a look, making her bleat in indignation. Harry expected Snape to do what Harry himself had been unable to do, and leap in, but Snape stopped at the pool's edge and yanked out his wand. He leveled it at the body, which began to rise from the liquid in a pattering shower of droplets.

As the arms flopped down, Harry saw just what he'd known he would see. They were slashed in long wounds, from the fine creases at the wrists – Professor Trelawney had told them these were called the Bracelets of Fortune, he remembered for no good reason – halfway to the elbow.

The legs and the head dangled, too, but something about the body … the size and shape of it … eerie, ghastly familiarity washed over Harry. He stared. He didn't realize Snape was shouting at him until Snape's bony foot shot out and kicked him smartly in the shin.

It was, he would later reflect, something that Snape had probably wanted to do for years and now that he'd finally had the chance, he hadn't even been able to enjoy it with everything else going on.

"The _robe_, Potter!" Snape ordered.

Harry jerked, nodded, and went to the bathrobe he had earlier noticed hanging tidily on a hook above a folded towel. He fumbled with it, took it down, dropped it, knocked the towel off the bench while retrieving it, and froze as the magazine that had been under the towel riffle-slapped to the bathroom floor.

His own sheepishly-grinning face looked up at him from the cover of the _Quibbler_, above words he knew by heart.

"Sometime this _century_, Potter!" came Snape's urgent hiss.

The bathrobe in his hands was plush and midnight-black. Quite large; on Harry it would have been as roomy as one of Dudley's hand-me-downs. On the left side of the chest was an embroidered logo, the way a posh hotel might stitch the name. But this logo was an emerald-green snake coiled around a silver dagger.

On legs that felt like jointed stilts, Harry took the robe over to Snape. Filch had recovered his wits enough to have threatened the mermaid into silence and was gruffly shaking Colin by the upper arms and demanding to know what was going on. Myrtle hovered high near the ceiling, watching everything with avid, greedy, ghoulish attention.

Snape snatched the bathrobe from Harry. He had lowered the body to the floor, and now moved to cover it.

A big body, hulking and slab-muscled, with the hunched shoulders and long powerful arms of a caveman. The brow of a caveman, too, low and brutish.

It was Crabbe.

And Harry thought that he should have known right away, should have recognized him immediately. _Would_ have, surely, except that he simply wasn't used to seeing Crabbe without Goyle.

Then Snape covered Crabbe from head to knees with the bathrobe, leaving only the scalded-red lower legs and feet sticking out. He whirled to Harry, dark eyes ablaze.

"Explain, Potter," he snarled.

"You can't think that _I_ –" Harry began.

Snape's acid, contemptuous look told Harry all he needed to know on _that_ subject. Of course, Snape didn't think he had anything to do with Crabbe's death … Snape might not have the highest opinion of Harry James Potter, might in fact hate him as much as he'd ever hated Harry's father, or godfather, but he knew Harry, too. Knew him perhaps even better than Dumbledore or McGonagall or any other teacher, and knew that while Harry would happily jinx his Slytherin enemies seven ways to Sunday, he would never have done something like this. Not even to Malfoy, who was the leader. Let alone to a thick-jawed, slow-witted thug like Crabbe.

"Colin found him," Harry said. "He came to use the prefects' bathroom – he's a prefect –"

"I know," Snape said impatiently, and made a 'go on' gesture with one supple, spider-fingered hand.

"And he came to get me."

"You."

"Yes. Sir."

"Why in the nine hells would he get _you_, Potter?"

Harry shrugged, unable to repeat Colin's reason. Snape's eyes narrowed and his lip curled as he surmised it anyway.

"He came to get the famous Harry Potter, thinking that you would once more save the day," Snape said.

Biting his lower lip hard between his teeth, Harry looked down and away. His cheeks felt on fire.

Snape exhaled a derisive snort, as if to say that this dovetailed with everything he knew about Harry and his fan club, of which Mr. Creevey was an enthusiastic charter member. Then, as if that chain of thought led to the next logical Colin link, Snape glanced quickly around.

"He didn't have his camera," Harry said.

Those blazing dark eyes bored into his green ones, and it was like the Occlumency lessons all over again, both of them with defenses scoured away and thoughts laid bare for the other to read.

Filch had sent Colin out of the bathroom, and now approached Harry and Snape. He gave the shrouded body a wide berth as he did so, moving with a strange mincing tippy-toe gait that struck Harry as oddly squeamish for a man who yearned for the good old days of flogging, thumbscrews, and students suspended by the ankles in the castle's dankest rat-infested dungeons.

"Dead?" he asked Snape. At Snape's brusque nod, Filch grimaced. "Who is it?"

"Vincent Crabbe," Snape said. "Slytherin."

"Not a prefect?" Filch's eyebrows beetled down in disapproval. "But this is the prefects' bathroom."

A cold, dangerous glare made Snape look every bit as vile and evil as Harry had always believed him to be.

"Perhaps you'd like to give him detention, then, Filch?" he asked in a clipped tone. "I must say that the _funeral_ is liable to pose a conflict of scheduling! Or should we simply expel him?"

"Sorry, Professor," Filch muttered, and actually looked to _Harry_ for help. When none was forthcoming – Harry was staring at him with just as much unbelieving disgust as Snape was – he cleared his throat and nodded toward the razor blade on the floor. "Did himself in?"

"Obviously," Snape said.

Then, no doubt seeking to ingratiate himself once more, Filch pointed at the magazine. "It's just like the other one, isn't it? Got to be too much for them, the scandal, and all thanks to Potter here."

Before Harry could object, the door crashed open again. This time it was Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe, and Madame Pomfrey in a long flannel nightie with a flounce of eyelet lace around the collar, cuffs and hem. They both stopped short. As the door swung to behind them, Harry glimpsed Colin in the hallway, and a shifting confusion of figures all trying to crowd into the same hanging portrait-frames for a better look.

McGonagall, ashen, pressed her palm to the base of her throat. "Oh, my word …" she said, her brogue so thick that Harry could barely understand her.

Also pale, but with her face set, Madame Pomfrey hurried over and knelt beside the covered body.

"Go on, Potter," Snape said, giving him a slight push in McGonagall's direction.

He went, and when he neared her, she first swept him into a surprisingly fierce hug, then stood him back and patted him over as if making sure he was all in one piece, exactly as Mrs. Weasley had done when she'd come to Privet Drive after the incident with Tonks, Moody and Jane.

"Are you all right, Potter?"

"Fine," he said.

In one of the mirrors, he saw Madame Pomfrey fold back the bathrobe and expose Crabbe's face.

"Has the headmaster been told?" Snape asked McGonagall.

"Yes, he –"

Once again, the door opened, this time to admit Dumbledore and a few other teachers. The bathroom was getting crowded. Professor McGonagall gently but firmly ushered Harry out, to where Colin was waiting in the hall.

She took them to her office, where she coaxed them into drinking hot tea with such a strong flavor that Harry suspected it had been laced with something considerably more potent than honey and lemon. Colin, shakily at first but growing steadier as the level in his teacup went down, told her what had happened, how he'd found Crabbe – not that he'd known who it was – and, in a state of shock and panic, had gone to get the first person he could think of: Harry.

McGonagall's lips twitched when she heard this, not in amusement but not with Snape's contempt either. It was more of a wry understanding.

"I'm aware of the futility of asking you not to talk about what happened tonight," she said. "It will be all over the school by breakfast, I'm sure. But if you could find it in yourselves to … shall we say … keep the details on the sketchy side?"

"We will, Professor," Harry said. "Right, Colin?"

"Right," Colin said. "Right, yes, absolutely." He swallowed hard. "I don't _want_ to talk about it. I don't even want to _think_ about it. I keep seeing him … floating like that … and the way it _smelled_ …"

He leaned over and threw up on his bumblebee slippers, slid from the chair and lay unconscious on the floor. Harry and McGonagall regarded him for a moment, then looked at each other.

"I don't normally approve of using Memory Charms on students," Professor McGonagall mused. "In this case, however … I think an exception might be in order."

To be continued in Chapter Twelve -- Sixth Year Surprises ... coming Friday, November 26, 2004.

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_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	12. Sixth Year Surprises

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twelve: Sixth Year Surprises  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me.

Previously:

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water 

* * *

Professor McGonagall had been right: by breakfast, the whole school knew about Crabbe's fate. Although the students all had their class schedules, and morning editions of the _Daily Prophet_, and even the palomino presence of Firenze to discuss, all they did was put their heads together and murmur and whisper. 

It struck home to them in a way that Nott's death hadn't. Perhaps because it had taken place _here_... within the very walls of Hogwarts itself.

"He's the first since Moaning Myrtle," Hermione said.

Harry instantly bridled. "What about Cedric?"

"I meant, the first to die on the Hogwarts grounds, Harry," she said. "I don't mean to devalue Cedric in any way, you know that."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah," Ron said around a mouthful of kippers. "There was the basilisk, but they were only petrified, not killed."

Ginny, spreading marmalade on toast, shuddered. "Don't remind me."

None of them besides Ron really had much of an appetite, and Harry especially was only going through the motions of eating. He had refused Professor McGonagall's offer to blur the worst of the previous night's memories. As nice as it would be to forget, as glad as he would have been to never have to think about the way Crabbe had looked, bobbing there in the simmering soup of his own blood, he knew that amnesia was a luxury in which he couldn't indulge.

He thought that McGonagall was, in a strange way, prouder of him for refusing. Or maybe she simply knew that his head was already so full of horrible memories that another one wasn't going to make much difference.

Across the table, Colin Creevey was the unwilling center of attention. "I didn't get a very good look," he said for at least the tenth time since the tables had produced their bounty of eggs, sausage, toast, and pancakes. "As soon as I realized what I was seeing, I went quick as a flash to get Harry."

When asked, Harry too demurred and said he hadn't gotten a very good look. He edited the story to make it seem that Filch and Snape had arrived practically on his heels, and had shooed him and Colin out straight away.

The matter of the magazines was brought up, and by the time people were pushing away their plates  many of them untouched  the consensus seemed to be that Crabbe had taken his inspiration from Nott. That he must have been thinking about it for a long time, wracked with the shame of having his father exposed and then arrested, but, being Crabbe, hadn't known what to do about it until Nott provided him a solution by example.

Over at their table on the far side of the Great Hall, the majority of the Slytherins were silent and pale. Many of them wore looks of disbelief, as if they expected to wake at any moment and find that it had all only been a dream. Draco Malfoy looked stunned speechless. Beside him, Goyle looked so lost and forlorn that Harry was amazed to find himself actually feeling sorry for the big lug. He wondered what accommodations in their dormitory had been like last night... had Nott's bed been there, an empty glaring reminder? Or had it already been removed, the furniture rearranged to make the gap less obvious? Which would be worse, anyway?

The teachers, too, clearly weren't sure how to address this latest catastrophe. Harry saw several meaningful glances exchanged. They all gave the impression of waiting for someone else to speak up.

Only Firenze and Hagrid seemed unconcerned. The centaur, his bare human torso rising from a muscular palomino horse body, did not sit at the faculty table but stood at the end of it, near Hagrid's seat. Between the two of them, they ate enough for ten normal people, though where Hagrid gorged on great sloppy helpings of scrambled eggs mixed with bacon and cheese, Firenze had an immense bowl of oatmeal sweetened with a dab of honey and cream, and a platter of fresh fruit.

Dumbledore was not present; nor was Snape. Early that morning, Crabbe's mother and uncle had arrived and they were presumably seeing to the arrangements.

"What's first today?" Ron asked.

Harry consulted his class schedule. "Charms with the Hufflepuffs, then double Potions."

"Potions?" Ron and Hermione said together. Ron added, "Thought we were quit of Potions!" and hurriedly dug out his own schedule.

"I thought so, too," Harry said, "but McGonagall signed me up. I told her last year during my career advice session that I wanted to be an Auror, and she promised to see to it that I had every chance. Which means more Potions."

"But Professor Snape said he only takes students who get --" Hermione began.

"I did." Harry quirked a bitter smile. "It's unbelievable, what a difference it makes having the exam given by someone else. I didn't get top marks, but I did well enough that he had to take me."

"Me, too," Neville admitted.

"_You_ signed up for more Potions?" Ron asked. "You, Neville?"

"Well, I want to be an Auror, don't I?" Neville shot back. His face was pink, but he held Ron's gaze defiantly.

No one said anything, but Harry was sure they were all thinking what he was. Of course Neville wanted to become an Auror. His parents had both been Aurors, among the best in the business according to Mad-Eye Moody. They had fallen in the line of duty, and now more than ever, after his confrontation with the Death-Eaters and most of all his own taste of the Cruciatus Curse at the hands of the same woman who had taken Frank and Alice Longbottom away from their son, Neville was bound and determined to follow in their footsteps.

Whether Neville _could_ become an Auror, that was another matter. His grades in Potions had been abysmal, worse than Harry's, though he too had performed admirably well during their O.W.L.s. It was the teacher more than the subject that caused Neville's traditional poor performance; Snape scared him witless and could reduce Neville to a quivering pudding with a single arched eyebrow. He did better in his other classes, and had made great strides as a member of the D.A., but if Harry was pessimistic about his own chances...

"You're the only ones taking Potions, then," Hermione said. "Of our year and our House, anyway. Lavender and Parvati didn't sign up, and I don't think that Dean and Seamus did, either."

"Didn't you?" Harry asked.

She shook her head. "I did well enough, but thought I could stand to concentrate on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. It's nice to have more electives, isn't it? And you must be glad to have given up Divination."

With their O.W.L.s behind them, the sixth-years had had their course schedules arranged by their various heads of House. The idea behind this, Harry knew, was to tailor each student's classes to better prepare them for their chosen careers, which they'd each discussed last term.

The only classes still required of all students were what Fred and George Weasley had called "the Big Three," these being Charms, Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts. By now, they were expected to have a broad knowledge of subjects such as Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, History of Magic and other such basics, and only those wishing to pursue careers requiring them would continue to study them.

Additionally, a host of new subjects were now open to them. Professor Firenze's Philosophy and Non-Human Relations classes were only a few. Beginning Alchemy, Introduction to Healing, Magical Portraiture, International Wizarding Studies, Home Enchantments, and a number of non-magical things such as foreign languages, literature, music and art were among the available choices.

"Have you decided then what you're going to do?" Ron asked Hermione. "After Hogwarts, I mean."

"Well " She took a deep breath. "You have to promise not to laugh. I mean it. Cross your heart."

"Sure, okay," Ron said. "Cross my heart. Why? It's not _spew_, is it?"

"You promised, Ron!"

"Is it? Blimey, Hermione! Tell me you're joking!"

"I happen to think it's important! And Professor Dumbledore agrees with me. That's why he switched Firenze from Divination to Non-Human Relations. It's high time that wizards started working with members of other species. Care of Magical Creatures is all well and good when we're talking about _creatures_, but there's never been any mention of how best to deal with other _people_."

"Muggles," Dean said, having been drawn in by her elevated voice and animated gestures. "I'm thinking of trying to get into the Department of Muggle Relations, myself."

"Not Muggles," she said exasperatedly. "People who aren't human. Look at what we've seen poor Hagrid go through, or Professor Lupin. Go on and tell me they're not people, I dare you!"

"All right, Hermione," Harry said. "You don't need to convince us."

"But I do!" She slapped the table, making her silverware jingle. "You've never taken S.P.E.W. seriously, any of you. Haven't you seen for yourself the damage it can do when we go on treating other people like  like sub-human _things_? You all just go on your merry way, letting house-elves cook for you and do your laundry and clean up after you, and when I try to help them, you all act like it's a joke!"

Ron's face underwent a series of bizarre contortions that made him look like he was chewing off his own lips from the inside.

"We don't think it's a joke," Ginny said. By now, even the group who'd been clustering around Colin were staring at Hermione.

"You do, you do! All last year... do you have any idea how many hats and pairs of socks I knitted?" She held out her hands, and for the first time, Harry noticed hard red calluses on her fingers where her knitting needles must have pressed. "But as soon as my back was turned, you all went and... and... threw them out, or something."

"Hermione ..." Harry said.

"Laughing about it, too, I'm sure!" she went on heatedly. "Because I found out! Did you think I wouldn't? Last night after supper, I went down to the kitchens and do you know what? None of the elves had been freed! Not one!"

"Hermione!" he said, louder.

"What, Harry?"

"Dobby took them all. I... I meant to tell you and I never... quite got around to it. Dobby took all your bobble hats and socks. He gave some to Winky, but he kept the rest." He started talking faster, seeing fury well up in Hermione with such energy that her bushy brown hair almost crackled with it, like electricity. "Because the other house-elves wouldn't even come to Gryffindor tower anymore, Hermione, Dobby told me. They were insulted."

Her mouth fell open in a wounded gasp.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have said something a long time ago. But did you ask them? Did you ever ask them? They don't _want_ clothes. They like what they do. They don't want to be free."

"They... they just... that's just because they... they don't _know_ any better!" she said in a fierce whisper. "If they _knew_ ..."

"Face it, Hermione," Ron said. "They're happy the way they are."

She shot to her feet. "They're slaves! And you're hopeless, every single one of you, if you can't see that it's _wrong_ to take thinking, feeling beings and turn them into slaves!"

Angrily, she snatched up her book bag and slung it on her shoulder, nearly clocking a Hufflepuff boy who had the bad luck to be walking behind her at that moment. She stormed out.

Ron turned to Harry. "She's gone and decided to pursue this, hasn't she? Non-Human Relations, and she's going to try and make a career of it. Lobbying for elf-rights and all that rubbish."

"She doesn't think it's rubbish, Ron," Ginny said. "And evidently, neither does Professor Dumbledore."

"Don't get me wrong," Ron said. "I mean, I agree, it's not very nice the way people are about werewolves, half-giants or centaurs. But she's got a right bee in her bonnet about house-elves, you know she does."

"Well," Parvati Patil said, checking her reflection in a small gold-plated compact, "she can go on about house-elves if she likes, but that's not why _I'm_ taking his class."

"We know," Ron said, as if he'd just tasted something sour. His voice climbed an octave and he clasped his hands and fluttered his eyelids. "Ooh, Professor Firenze! He's so _dreeeeeeamy_!" Dropping his voice to its normal register, he scoffed. "It's bloody Lockhart all over again."

"I don't expect it's _that_ kind of Non-Human Relations," Ginny said, smiling.

"And even if it isn't," Parvati said, "someone should tell Hermione Granger to get off her soapbox. She may be all worked up about elves, but I certainly recall her saying some _very_ bigoted things about Firenze. She called him a horse, remember, Lavender?"

Lavender Brown nodded vehemently.

Harry, listening to all of this and the other chatter that had sprung up around the room as everyone prepared to leave for their first classes of the day, thought about what a bizarre but wonderful thing routine was. Not two hours ago, the entire Great Hall had been nearly paralyzed with the horror of what had happened to Crabbe. And yet, already, normality was reasserting itself. Habits were coming back. Inner doors were closing to everything except what they believed mattered  lessons and teachers, House points, homework, Quidditch.

And just like that, in a spur-of-the-moment flash, he knew that he was going to resume his place on the Quidditch team.

Yes, it was stupid. Yes, no one in the outside world gave two shakes whether Gryffindor won the silver Quidditch Cup for the _nth_ year running, keeping it securely in its accustomed spot in McGonagall's office. Yes, there were bigger and more important matters that he _should_ be worrying about.

But, damn it, Quidditch was one of the few things that made him truly, honestly happy. When he was flying, his other cares and concerns, whatever they were, all diminished. Why should he give up one of his few genuine pleasures just because everything else was going to hell all around him? Harry Potter being Seeker for another year wasn't going to stop Voldemort's plans ... wasn't going to interfere with any Death Eaters... and so what?

Wasn't that what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him at the end of last term? That he, Harry, already took on too much? Had too much to worry about, burdens that no one so young should have to deal with? Wasn't that one of Dumbledore's reasons for keeping Harry in the dark? To let him still salvage something of the childhood that had been wrested from him by circumstances beyond his control?

Really, wasn't it arrogant of him to expect that he'd be the only one who could stop what was going on? Just because it had been that way every previous year since he came to Hogwarts... let someone else deal with it for a change. The Ministry knew the truth now. Dumbledore knew the truth. Older and wiser wizards than him were supposedly on the case.

As he got up, gathering his books, Harry wryly admitted to himself that the trouble was, he didn't much trust those so-called older and wiser wizards. He had no faith whatsoever in Cornelius Fudge, who had been revealed to be a petty, vindictive fool whose insecurities and willful head-in-the-sand stubbornness had allowed all this to spiral so far out of control.

What about Dumbledore, he wondered? Do you still have faith in _him_?

Ah ... that was a tricky question. Harry knew that he did, as far as Dumbledore's capabilities. He had seen Dumbledore in action, had seen him go up against Voldemort in a dazzling display of magical strength. The problem wasn't that. The problem was a deep personal rift between them.

Rather than narrow that rift, Dumbledore's explanations following the events in the Department of Mysteries had only widened it. Harry understood better why Dumbledore had acted the way that he had... but understanding didn't change the way he felt. All those rationalizations and excuses had boiled down to one basic, insurmountable fact  Dumbledore didn't trust him.

He was halfway to Professor Flitwick's classroom, absently mumbling responses to whatever Ron was saying, when someone gave him a sharp poke in the side. Harry turned and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy, whose grey eyes were tight slits of suspicion.

Harry's hand went automatically to his wand but he didn't draw it. "Malfoy," he said.

Ron did draw, but Harry pushed Ron's hand down. Goyle loomed behind Malfoy, but Goyle's usual air of menace was gone. He only stood there, his face slack, his eyes hazy, like a big ugly waxwork.

"I want to know what happened last night, Potter," Malfoy said.

"Why ask me? Why not ask Snape?"

"I did, and that's how I know that the version you've been spreading around isn't the whole one."

Harry bent close. "What do you want from me, Malfoy? Details? You want to know how he looked? You want to know what it was like in there, the whole bathroom steamy with his blood? I thought he was your friend."

Goyle made a low, strangled noise. Malfoy hissed through clenched teeth. Ron gaped at Harry like he'd never seen him before.

"If you had something to do with it, I will find out," Malfoy said.

"I didn't," Harry said. "Give me Veritaserum and I'd tell you the same thing."

"Vince wouldn't kill himself," Goyle said in a slow, thick voice. "And never like that. He hated baths. Everyone knew it."

Ron started to mutter something, caught himself, and closed his mouth. Harry was glad. This was no time for snide remarks. Whatever else, no matter how much they'd been at odds since the start of their very first years here, a boy was dead.

"I didn't like him," Harry said bluntly. "I don't like you or Goyle, either. I think we're all clear on that, just like we're all clear on your opinions of me."

"We certainly are," said Malfoy coldly.

"But that doesn't mean I had anything to do with his death. You're forgetting, Malfoy. It's your father's friends who kill people."

Malfoy bared his teeth but didn't  maybe couldn't  say anything.

"So if you're looking for someone to blame," Harry finished, "I'd suggest you start a little closer to home. Come on, Ron."

A ring of open space had magically formed around the four of them, a ring composed of solemn, watchful students. As Harry continued on, towing Ron by the arm, this gap melted away and, slowly, a normal level of hallway conversation resumed.

"Bloody hell," Ron said in a low tone. "I never thought I'd be saying this about Malfoy, but don't you reckon you were a bit hard on him?"

"What if I was?" Harry said. "All I need is to have that whole Heir of Slytherin nonsense start up again, people scurrying out of my way because they think I'm some mad killer. And, what, I'm supposed to spare _Malfoy's_ feelings? I like how everyone seems to overlook how _my_ godfather was murdered. We all could have been, you know. It was a near thing."

"I try not to think about that," Ron said.

"Good for you. I can't _stop_ thinking about it." Harry pushed the classroom door open and went inside.

Hard on Malfoy, indeed!

He told himself that he was probably being a bit hard on Ron, too ... after all, Ron had been none too steady after one of the Death Eaters had hit him with a spell that left him reeling about like a drunkard. And the brain... the pulsing white-green brain with its clasping tentacles... Ron had summoned it out of its tank and it had attacked him, and Harry never had found out just what those brains had been, or what they'd done to Ron.

Hermione was already there, seated off to one side with her nose buried in a thick book titled _Clever Uses of Everyday Charms_. Professor Flitwick greeted the class warmly as they all filed in and took their places. He told them that given how grueling their last year had been, what with preparing for their O.W.L.s, he thought they'd take the first term of this year easy and concentrate on simple entertainment spells.

They spent the rest of the session casting Voice-Altering Charms on each other, seeing who could come up with the funniest or most outlandish voice. After a while, this even brought a smile to Hermione's face, especially after Neville, slyly, cast one on Lavender that made her sound wispy and ethereal like Professor Trelawney. Lavender took offense, and tried to upbraid Neville, but in the middle of her scolding, Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff cast one that gave her Hagrid's voice, and the entire class erupted in laughter.

It was only after Charms, in the hall, that Harry realized for the first time since coming to Hogwarts he was going to have a class without Ron. Aside from Quidditch practices, they had never been doing separate things during the term. He felt a pang as Ron and the others headed for their respective classes, while Harry and Neville made their way to the dungeons where Snape's Potions lessons were held.

"Remind me again why I did this to myself," Neville said as they went down the gloomy, dark staircase.

"Because you want to be an Auror," Harry said.

"Right." Neville didn't sound reassured.

Harry wasn't feeling all that reassured himself, but he tried not to let it show as they joined the small group of sixth-years outside of the Potions classroom. The faces were all familiar, but he'd never seen them all in one class at the same time before. A couple of Hufflepuffs, a few Ravenclaws, a bunch of Slytherins including Malfoy and Goyle, and two Gryffindors, him and Neville.

Malfoy had, for the time being, apparently decided to adopt Snape's new method of dealing with Harry, which was to frostily ignore him. All in all, it made Potions much easier to endure.

Though the listed on the blackboard was one of the most complex Harry had ever seen, he followed the instructions slowly and carefully. By the time Snape announced, "Five more minutes," his cauldron was brimming with the golden-black sparkling smoke that indicated a perfectly-blended Fireproofing Potion.

Neville hadn't been quite so lucky; his smoke was a dense black that didn't so much rise from the cauldron as it seeped over the sides, ran across the table, and spilled onto the floor in cool, gritty drifts. But his was still far better than Goyle's, which had first foamed up out of the cauldron and then flash-frozen around it in a blob of what looked like spongy, dirty ice.

"Time," Snape said. He flicked his wand at a deep fireplace built into the dungeon wall, and flames roared with sudden heat. "Line up. Each of you will, in turn, dip your hand into your Fireproofing Potion, and then thrust that same hand into the fire."

Several students, Neville among them, gulped audibly. Pansy Parkinson took another look at her potion, which was seething with sparks more red than gold. Goyle thumped experimentally on the dirty grey blob of ice, a doubtful frown crawling across his face.

When it was Harry's turn, he nonchalantly dunked his hand and then extended it, gloved in sparkling golden-black, into the flames. He could see the fire burning all around his hand, but only felt it as a tickle, like many teasing feathers playing against his skin.

Snape made no comment, though Harry could sense annoyance coming off him in waves. He knew better than to press his luck by making some remark of his own, and simply went first to the sink to rinse off his hand, then to his cauldron to clean up.

"That wasn't too horrible," Neville said a while later, as they climbed the stairs toward the entrance hall. He held his right hand stiffly out and away from his body as he went. "I'm only blistered in three places."

At lunch, Ron was in high spirits. "I was down for a while," he admitted. "After McGonagall talked me out of wanting to be an Auror last year "

"She never!" cried Hermione.

"Well, all right, she didn't talk me out of it, but she told me what kind of marks they'd look for, and I got thinking how if even Tonks barely scraped by, what kind of a chance did _I_ have, I'd just be better off going for something else." He threw a truculent look around the table as if daring any of them to contradict what he said next. "And I thought I'd like to go into something that makes a spot of money, all right?"

"Nothing wrong with that, mate," Dean said, and everyone else nodded. "I'd love to be an artist, but after Magical Portraiture this morning, well, Professor Leonardo spent half the time telling us how important it was to have something else to fall back on if we want to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads."

"Anyway," Ron went on, "it's the next big thing, that's what they're saying. Forget the _Daily Prophet_ ... imagine having the news come right into your house, with people talking about it and everything. Sports, too. Remember when we went to the Quidditch World Cup, and there were a hundred thousand wizards there? Well, what about the ones who couldn't make the trip, maybe couldn't afford tickets? What if they could have watched from home?"

Harry did his best not to grin. "That'd be something, Ron."

"The Crystal Ball Network?" Hermione frowned. "It sounds to me like tele " She broke off as, under the table, Harry kicked her ankle. Dean, who was Muggle-born too, gave her a significant look and mimed turning a key at his lips. "Like quite a good idea," she finished. "I'm sure there's a market for it."

The rest took turns describing how their mornings had gone. Lavender, putting on airs like she was already a full-fledged Healer after only a single class, clucked over Neville's blisters, smeared them with salve, and wrapped him in a bandage that went most of the way to his elbow. Parvati and Seamus had been at an International Wizarding Studies class. Hermione bored them with another long-winded gushing rave about how wonderful Arithmancy was, how she was still fascinated by it and learning loads.

A clear chime brought all the talk in the Great Hall to an end, and heads turned toward the staff table. Professor Dumbledore stood there, in twilight-blue robes trimmed in pure white. He held his wand in one hand and a tall goblet in the other, having tapped the rim of the glass to make that piercing chime.

"If I might interrupt your lunch for just a moment," he said, with a gentle smile to assure them it wasn't more bad news. "Afternoon lessons are about to begin, but if the sixth-years will kindly remain behind for a few moments? Thank you."

"It's about Crabbe and Nott, I bet it is," Ron said as the seventh-years and younger students finished eating.

When the Great Hall had emptied except for the sixth-years and Dumbledore, he gave a theatrical wave of his wand and the long House tables and benches flew to the side walls, making a terrific clatter as they stacked themselves. A second wave of his wand produced a semicircle of folding chairs, one for everybody while Dumbledore himself stood at the center of the semi-circle.

"Please, everyone have a seat," Dumbledore said.

They did so, many swapping uncertain looks as if not quite sure what to expect. Harry noticed that everyone sat by House, with Parvati Patil and her twin sister Padma forming the boundary between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Lisa Turpin was at the end of the Ravenclaw line, holding hands with Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff. Susan Bones, a member of the D.A., sat straight and aloof beside Blaise Zabini of Slytherin, neither of them acknowledging the other.

Blaise was a strange one. Harry had never, in six years of attendance at Hogwarts, been able to figure out if Blaise was a boy or a girl. The professors were no help; while they invariably addressed everyone else as "Mr. Potter" or "Miss Granger," he had never heard one of them utter either a "Mr." or a "Miss" in front of "Zabini." Blaise was not tall and not short, with curiously androgynous features and a slim, lithe body that gave no hint as to its shape beneath the flowing black school robes.

Harry couldn't remember seeing Blaise at the Yule Ball  he had been so petrified of having to dance in front of everyone, so emotionally wrenched by Cho dating Cedric and so generally frazzled by the whole Triwizard Tournament that he'd barely recognized _Hermione_.

He could ask Jane, he thought, and grasped this idea with great relief. Jane would know.

"I'm sure that you have all been affected by the loss of two of your classmates," Dumbledore said, yanking Harry's attention to the here and now.

A ripple of agreement went around the semicircle, oddly seeming to lose strength as it passed from the Slytherins, who _were_ affected, through the sensitive Hufflepuffs and losing strength as it reached the more intellectual Ravenclaws. By the time it got around to the Gryffindors, it was mere lip-service sympathy.

"I would like you all to know," Dumbledore continued, "that a memorial will be held this weekend in the school chapel. Should you wish to express your condolences to the families, please let me know and I will tell you how to direct your owls. The entire staff is at your disposal, if you have the need to talk."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. Dumbledore's mention of a memorial and condolences had done what seeing the bodies hadn't... it brought home to him the irrevocable fact that Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe were dead. Really and truly _dead_. Not missing, not in the hospital wing, not expelled ... _dead_.

"That, however, is not why I asked you to stay behind," Dumbledore said. "As you've already become aware, your class schedules are somewhat different this year, to reflect your individual paths. Additionally, we are implementing a new program at Hogwarts to provide our excellent teachers with extra assistance as well as provide some of you with a valuable learning opportunity."

Hermione and the Ravenclaws perked up first, raising their heads, eyes alight with keen interest.

Dumbledore produced a scroll from the voluminous sleeve of his twilight-blue robes. "I have here a list of all the professors, as well as certain key staff persons. After much deliberation, each of them has been assigned a Student Apprentice, who will be working closely with that person throughout the year."

He unrolled the scroll, as the sixth-years looked around at one another nervously.

"Professor?" Hermione's hand shot into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Um... Professor, there are more of us than there are faculty and staff," she said. "Won't some people be left over?"

"Astute as ever, Miss Granger," he said. "But fear not ... none of you are getting off that easily!"

A few people chuckled, but most were busily whispering to one another, speculating about possible assignments.  
Harry felt like a cold fist was clenching in his stomach. He knew there wasn't a chance in a million that he would wind up stuck with Snape, but thought it was likely he might end up being made Dumbledore's own Student Apprentice. And that, given his recent feelings, might be almost as bad.

"It's like the Sorting," Neville said, sounding as nervous as Harry felt.

Parvati's hand shot up. "Don't _we_ have any say?"

"What happens to the people left over?" Ernie Macmillan called out.

"It is true that not all of you will be Apprenticed," Dumbledore said after waving for quiet. "This in no way reflects on anyone's abilities, merit, or temperament. In cases where there was a conflict, I took it upon myself to match you up in ways that I deemed most suitable."

He rattled the scroll, which appeared to have a long list of names inscribed on it in shining gold ink. Starting with Abbott, Hannah, he began to read.

To be continued in Chapter Thirteen -- Student Apprentice ... coming Friday, December 3, 2004.

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_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	13. Student Apprentice

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Thirteen: Student Apprentice  
Christine Morgan

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Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me.

Previously:

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water Chapter Twelve -- Sixth Year Surprises 

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_(special author's note -- due to my going on vacation, the chapter after this will post in two weeks, on Friday the 17th of December)_

The office had undergone many transformations over the years, and Harry wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he knocked. Trepidation made his heart skitter inside his ribs, and the back of one hand stung with a phantom pain. He thought of china plates painted with large-eyed kittens, and lacy doilies, and a dead-black quill with a razor's point.

"Come in, Harry."

Gwenna Golden, simply attired in a long cream-colored robe with her hair twisted up in a French knot, opened the door and moved gracefully back to admit him.

Harry stepped inside and looked around in frank wonder.

A balmy, salt-smelling breeze riffled through his hair. He heard the rustle of palm fronds and the foamy rush of waves. A warm, diffuse light played over his skin.

Last year, when Firenze had taken over the teaching of Divination for the sacked Professor Trelawney, Dumbledore had turned one of the downstairs classrooms into an uncanny replica of the centaur's forest home. Something similar had been done here, recreating the tropical island from which Professor Golden had hailed.

The walls were covered with what Harry guessed might be bamboo, and hung with silken, colorful draperies that swayed and billowed. Potted palms, laden with leafy fronds and fat coconuts, flanked a desk that looked made from wind-sculpted driftwood. The horrible maiden-aunt chairs of Umbridge's were long gone, replaced by wicker chairs with cushions in bold floral print. A stern stone tiki god peered down from one corner, a miniature step-pyramid very much like the one in Luna's silly magazine article stood in the other. A brilliant-green parrot sat on a perch, and a long-limbed monkeylike creature with white fut and a black-and-white banded tail.

On the desk was a glass globe twice the size of a Quaffle, and inside this glass globe was... well, was the beach. It was full of sand and water and sky, shells and coral and kelp, waving tendrils of sea-grass and anemones, the fleet rainbow flicker of tiny fish. Everything was in constant motion, wind and waves.

Harry, who had never been to the beach in his life-- the Dursleys had always left him with Aunt Marge or with Mrs. Figg whenever they'd gone on holiday-- could only gaze at it in amazement. The globe seemed to be the source of the balmy breeze and the rushing sound of the ocean.

"They thought that I might be feeling homesick," Professor Golden said, running her hand along the curved surface of the beach-globe.

"Are you?"

"Not so much," she said, "though the weather here is very dreary."

"Wait until winter."

"Would you like something to drink, Harry?"

Lupin had given him butterbeer; Umbridge tea that Harry had only pretended to drink as he suspected it was spiked with Veritaserum. Gwenna gave him a wide-mouthed glass full of some sort of bright purple slushy iced juice, with a wedge of fruit stuck on the side and a stir stick shaped like a palm tree. Harry took it, thinking absurdly that he felt like someone should have dropped a flower lei around his neck.

"Where's Arcturus?" he asked, sampling the drink. It was fruity and fizzy and had a slight kick to it, though surely she wouldn't serve real rum.

"In my quarters, under the watchful eye of his nanny and his many-times-great-grandfather."

"Phineas Nigellus?"

"The headmaster had his portrait moved," she explained.

"And a nanny? Who?"

She held out her arm. On her tanned wrist was a golden bracelet set with a large piece of polished coral on a hinge like a locket. She flipped up the coral. Beneath was a smooth crytal surface like a watch face, but instead of numbers and hands, it was a miniature window that showed a cozy sitting room. Arcturus was tucked into a crib, hugging his toy dog.

Rocking the crib, and singing a lullaby in a sweet, high voice, was a figure no bigger than the little boy, a figure wearing a little dress, a cap, and an apron... a figure with large pointed ears, a squashed-tomato nose, and enormous soulful brown eyes.

"Winky!" exclaimed Harry. "But I thought Winky was ... that she ..." Harry mimed tipping a bottle to his lips and rolled his head a little.

"Not any more," Gwenna said. "I understand that she had a rough time, but she's mended her ways. Having a child to care for is good for her."

"I guess it might be," he said, thinking of how Winky's whole life had revolved around taking care of Barty Crouch Jr.

True, Barty Jr. had been grown up when his father had spirited him out of Azkaban and brought him home to live a secret life of stealth and invisibility, but he had been alone except for Winky, dependent on her. Losing her charge and being turned out of the house by an irate Mr. Crouch had plunged Winky into months and months of drunken despair. Dobby had done his best to help, but as Harry well knew, sometimes Dobby's cures were worse than the disease. Dobby's idea of helping Harry had once cost Harry all the bones in his arm.

"So," Gwenna said, snapping the wrist-locket closed as they sat down. "You are my Student Apprentice."

"Dumbledore told me."

In retrospect, he supposed he shouldn't have been all that surprised. She knew him-- he was, in fact, the only sixth-year she'd met, the only student at all besides Jane-- and she had even asked him to be her son's godfather.

"I nearly had a fight on my hands to get you, too," she said. "Madame Hooch was ready to challenge me to a duel. She says you're the best natural-born flyer she has ever seen."

"I thought she was cross with me," Harry said. "For getting kicked off the team and all."

"Not hardly," Gwenna said, smiling. "I think she's expecting you to turn professional Quidditch player."

"I'm a bit out of practice," Harry admitted guiltily. "I hadn't even decided until yesterday that I was going to try to get reinstated."

"I doubt you'll have any trouble with that. But it wasn't only Madame Hooch. Professor McGonagall was determined to take you under her wing, as well. Is it true she swore an oath to help you become an Auror?"

Harry fidgeted. "Well ... kind of."

"But, given your, shall we say, extra-credit activities last year, Professor Dumbledore thought it would be beneficial to us both for you to assist me with my Defense Against the Dark Arts classes."

"Is that what I'm going to be doing? I thought it would be... I don't know, running messages and making copies and such."

"There'll be some of that, too," she said, "but given that you have much more practical experience with these jinxes and counter-curses than I do, I had planned to rely rather heavily on you. Remus tells me that you can resist the Imperius Curse, that you are an old hand with a Patronus, and that you've held your own against the worst wizards of this day and age. Really, Harry, if you'd been just two years older, they probably would have hired you instead of me."

"Nice of you to say so," Harry said dryly, "but after all the trouble I've caused around here, I really doubt it."

"Oh?" She looked evenly at him. "They all do seem to think most highly of you."

"Snape wasn't there, then, was he?" muttered Harry.

She laughed. "In all fairness, he doesn't seem to think very highly of anyone, and it was with some ill grace that he agreed to take young Mr. Malfoy as his Student Apprentice."

"Who did he want?" Harry asked, interest piqued.

"Actually, he rather resented the entire suggestion," she said. "Not all of the professors thought it was a good idea."

"I feel sorry for Ernie," Harry said. "I knew all those extra hours of studying magical history would come back to haunt him." He realized what he'd said, in reference to the History of Magic teacher Professor Binns, and snickered. "No pun intended."

Gwenna handed him a sheaf of parchment. "These are my lesson plans and book lists. I thought that Wednesday evenings might be a good time for Defense Association meetings, unless you have a better --"

"Hey, hang on, what? The D.A.?"

"You did wish to start it up again, didn't you?"

"Sure, but --" He floundered, then let a huge smile break over his face. "Thanks!"

"It wasn't my doing," she said. "Thank Professor Dumbledore. I am merely the faculty advisor. This is your study group, Harry. You can decide if and how you want to admit new members and what you want to do at your meetings."

At her request, he told her all about last year's meetings, from the impromtu beginnings at the Hog's Head right up until their final rout when Umbridge had almost caught them all red-handed. Marietta Edgecombe, a Ravenclaw girl and friend of Cho Chang's, had been the one to spill their secret, in the process earning herself a faceful of angry purple pustules spelling out the word "sneak." Marietta had not returned to school yet, and Harry had heard a rumor that she was still in a ward at St. Mungo's, the pustules stubbornly resisting all known magical cures. The foremost lesson Harry had learned from that entire incident was to never, ever get Hermione Granger seriously mad at him.

He left Gwenna's office feeling cheerier than he had in a long time. Hogwarts was starting to be home again. No one was trying to kill him at the moment, he was going to get back on the Quidditch team, he had permission to conduct Defense Association meetings, the Ministry was no longer calling him an attention-hogging liar.

"Harry!" she called after him, leaning out of her door.

She had been in the process of unpinning her hair from its knot, and it tumbled loose and gorgeous around her shoulders. In that instant, he saw her as Sirius must have seen her, and was suddenly, fiercely glad that his godfather had ended up on that island. Had met this woman, and fallen in love. It didn't make the loss of Sirius any easier, but still helped in some way he couldn't define.

His throat closed with husky emotion and he couldn't speak.

"Professor McGonagall wondered if you could stop by her office, too, when we were done having our chat," Gwenna said. "I almost forgot, and I don't need to be any more on Minerva McGonagall's bad side."

"O-Okay," Harry said.

Gwenna waved, and retreated, and shut the door. For a few seconds, Harry stood in the hallway, his thoughts whirling. He was amused to find himself _jealous_ of Sirius, in an "oh, you lucky so-and-so!" kind of way. This led him to thoughts of his own failed attempt at romance with Cho, and his amusement trickled away.

It was not yet eight-thirty, and a few people still roamed the halls. Many were fifth-years, leaving the library with shellshocked looks on their faces and huge heavy books in their arms.

Harry smiled grimly, thinking of his and Ron's reactions on the first day of their fifth year. Every single class had begun with a lecture on how this would be the most vitally important year of their lives, how the O.W.L.s could make or break a wizard's career. And every single class had ended with hitherto unimagined amounts of homework.

Ginny Weasley was among them, and he gave her an encouraging thumbs-up. She responded with a sickly grimace. Coming along behind her, Luna Lovegood drifted along gazing at the paintings as if she hadn't a care in the world.

"All right, Colin?" Harry asked, seeing Colin Creevey shuffling past with his head down.

"Two feet of parchment on the properties of ferrous oxide, a foot and a half on the Goblin Crusades, forty pages on Mood Charms to read, and the moons of Saturn to memorize," Colin said. He had developed a twitch. "In one day, Harry! All in one day!"

"What've you got tomorrow?"

Colin only laughed the sort of laugh that would have sounded right at home in an asylum, and wandered off toward the Gryffindor common room clutching his head.

Professor McGonagall's door was open, and she looked up smartly from a stack of essays. "Ah, Potter," she said. "Good. Come in."

He did, swinging the door mostly closed behind him. He looked at the essays. "What Transfiguration Means to Me?" he asked.

"The notions some first-years have," she said, pursing her lips and giving her head a little shake. "It's best to dispell them from the very beginning. Easier with the Muggle-borns, really... they don't come in with as many preconceived ideas. Ginger Newt?"

"Thanks," Harry said, taking one from the tartan tin on the corner of her desk.

As he sat down, nibbling the spicy cookie, he surveyed her as subtly as he could. The previous year had taken its toll on all of them, but Professor McGonagall had run up against the wrong end of four Stunning spells when she had tried to intervene as Umbridge and a handful of Ministry goons had taken on Hagrid. Professor McGonagall had returned from St. Mungo's with her acerbic wit intact, but looked a good decade older than she had. Her walking-stick was kept propped in the corner.

"If you're finished scrutinizing me, Mr. Potter?"

"Sorry, Professor."

"I assure you," she said dryly, "I am in more than adequate health."

Harry nodded.

"Now, Potter," McGonagall said, her manner turning all brisk and businesslike. She set a leather-bound book down on her dest with a smart rap, and rested her hands atop it. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I ... I haven't been made your Student Apprentice, too, have I?"

Her mouth pursed. "Someone's been telling tales, I see."

"_Have_ I?" Harry asked in alarm.

He thought back to Dumbledore's speech about wanting to spare him responsibility, and Harry's own disgruntled reaction; had Dumbledore's response been to decide that if responsibility was what Harry wanted, he could have it in spades. Of all the teachers, McGonagall was bound to demand the most work and highest standards from any sort of assistant, and if he had to take on those duties in additon to whatever Professor Golden required of him ...

"No," McGonagall said crisply. "Though I am rather disappointed to see how the very idea horrifies you."

"Oh... no, I'm sorry... I didn't mean... I never ..." floundered Harry.

She softened her brusque tone with a slight smile. "It was not for lack of trying on my part, I assure you. However, I expect that you will do well with Professor Golden, and that you will be a credit to Gryffindor as usual."

"Thanks," Harry said.

"I have something else in mind for you," she said, and slid the book toward him.

Picking it up, he saw the scarlet and gold lion crest of Gryffindor emblazoned on the leather cover. When he turned to the front page, he realized that he was holding the house Quidditch team roster.

"Professor ..."

"As you know, Miss Johnson left us at the end of last term," McGonagall said. "I would like you to step up as the new team captain."

Harry sat there with his mouth open. Finally, he said, "But... but Professor, I got kicked off the team... lifetime ban ..."

"You are not taking what that woman said as law, I hope."

"It ... she... well, I had thought about seeing if I could get back on the team ..."

"As far as I am concerned, and I have the full support of Professor Dumbledore in this, anything that Dolores Umbridge decreed is now entirely null and void. Your ban is lifted. If it would make you feel better, I will happily contact the Department of Magical Games and Sports... I'm sure Ludo Bagman would be glad to ..."

"No, that's all right," Harry cut in. "If you say so, Professor, that's more than good enough for me. I'll be at tryouts, just you name the time ..."

She leaned forward and regarded him over the tops of her spectacles. "Tryouts? Did I or did I not just ask you to take over as captain? There's no need for tryouts, not for you. If anything, you're the one who will need to decide when the tryouts are for the rest of the team. Another Ginger Newt?"

As his first Ginger Newt still only had the edge nibbled off, Harry declined. Quidditch captain? Not just Seeker again, but Captain?

"Well?" inquired McGonagall. "Will you accept?"

He knew it would be a lot of work, a lot of stress and aggravation. Oliver Wood, who had been captain when Harry joined the team, had become obsessed with Quidditch to the expense of all else. Harry had initially supposed that was just Oliver's way, until last year when Angelina Johnson had taken over and had become just as driven, just as obsessed. Would he end up the same way?

And what about Ron? What would Ron say? They hadn't talked about it in years, but Harry knew what Ron had seen in the Mirror of Erised, knew Ron's secret ambition to outshine all his brothers by not only being Head Boy like Bill, not only a Quidditch star like Charlie, but _both_.

In the harsh light of honesty, though, Harry knew that even if he turned down this offer, McGonagall wasn't likely to go to Ron with it. Ron had come through at the end of last year, winning the final game of the season and securing the Cup-- he glanced over at it now, the mellow gleam of silver in its place of pride on McGonagall's shelf-- but prior to that, Ron's performance as Keeper had been dismal. Too, Ron would never feel at ease giving directions and orders to the rest of the team. Witness how well he had undertaken his prefect duties; only Hermione had ever attempted to enforce the rules.

"I'll do it," he told McGonagall. "I won't let you down."

She patted his hand. "You never do, dear boy. You never let anyone down in the long run."

"Except Sirius." It had popped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

McGonagall's expression softened. "I know it is little consolation, but he was always very proud of you. I think that when he looked at you, he saw all of your father's best traits, and none of the worse ones."

"But I still couldn't help him when he needed it most," Harry said. "And it was because of me that he was there."

"I won't try to make you feel better about that," she said. "Anything that I could say, you've no doubt heard already and still wouldn't believe. But do bear in mind what I said just a moment ago. That in the long run, you've never let anyone down. I know what you've offered to do for young Arcturus Black, and I think it is admirable, Mr. Potter."

He finished his Ginger Newt and she let him go, asking that he inform her when he scheduled the team tryouts so that she could attend. Harry made his way back to Gryffindor tower, thinking that he should have been gladder than he was by the evening's events. Not only had he been let back on the Quidditch team, he'd been made captain. And not only was he going to be allowed to continue the D.A., he had official school sanction as the Student Apprentice to the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

The two things he loved most about Hogwarts were both restored to him. And though he _was_ glad, he still felt empty. It was as if the loss of Sirius, and the guilt he felt for nearly getting five of his friends killed, had hollowed him out so thoroughly that not even things that would have had him overflowing with joy a year ago could even fill him up now.

Most of the younger students had gone to bed by the time he let himself into the common room. Ron was in one of the big armchairs by the fire, gazing morosely at his feet. Neville sat near him, looking like he wanted to say something encouraging but hadn't a clue where to begin. He threw Harry a beseeching glance, but Harry was more immediately distracted by the sight of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil glaring daggers at each other from opposite sides of a table, and very obviously _not_ speaking.

The portrait hole opened again and Hermione stepped through. She stopped just inside, taking in the emotional stormy weather of the common room. Her smile slowly faded. Her arms were laden with books and scrolls, and Neville sprang up to help her with them, giving Harry a none-too-subtle push toward Ron as he passed.

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked, taking the seat that Neville had so hastily vacated.

Ron grumbled something.

"What?"

"Why me, I said," Ron repeated. "Why me?"

"Oh, come on, was it that bad?"

"Was it that bad?" he parroted. "You know what his classes are like, and now I've got to be down there _helping_ him?"

"But it's only Hagrid," Harry said. "We're down there lots already."

"For tea," Ron said. "Tea, and sometimes that nut brittle he makes, the stuff like a slab of cobblestone road. This is different, mate. I'm not Charlie. Charlie _liked_ getting bitten, and burnt, and stung, and trampled. That's why he went off to work with dragons. D'you know the first thing he said to me? That he'd been to see bloody Aragog, and Aragog was lending him an egg sac full of his great-great-great-grandchildren so that Hagrid would have spiderlings for his classes to raise, and that tomorrow night he's going into the forest to fetch it and wants me to come along!"

During this speech, Ron's voice had risen to a shrill near-scream, which had Hermione, Neville, Lavender and Parvati all looking at him.

"Why didn't you tell him you're afraid of spiders?" Harry asked.

"Tried, didn't I?" bleated Ron. "And do you know what he said back to me?"

"Probably," Hermione said, "something about how they could look after themselves but they wouldn't really hurt anybody."

Ron curled his fist and banged his forehead with it. "Why'd he take me, anyway? There's got to be people better in his classes than I am, there's got to!"

"Professor Sprout told me that she'll have me working in greenhouse seven," Neville offered helpfully. "She said she's got gorgon-vines in there, and corpse-blossom, and Red Death shelf fungus, and --"

"And what makes you think I want to be Madame Pomfrey's assistant, anyway?" Lavender cut in. "All right, I am interested in the Healing arts, but that doesn't mean I want to spend a few hours a day up in the hospital wing, emptying bedpans and treating boils! While _some_ people are delving into the hidden mysteries of the universe!"

"Don't look at me that way," Parvati snapped. "I can't help it if she chose _me_."

"Oh, tell me you two aren't fighting over Trelawney!" cried Hermione. "Honestly!"

"She said I had the makings of a true Seer," Lavender said, sniffling.

"Well, she said I did, too," Parvati retorted. "But believe me, if I'd had my choice, I would have chosen another arrangement!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"And I was feeling sorry for Dean and Seamus," Ron said. "I sat there and felt bad for them when Dumbledore skipped over their names. Thought that by the time he got to me, he'd used up all the spots, but then he says _Hagrid_ ..."

"It could have been worse," Harry said. "Could have been Snape."

"Like everyone didn't know Snape would choose Malfoy," Ron said, unimpressed by Harry's logic.

"You could be in Blaise Zabini's spot, then," Neville said. "Apprentice to Filch? How awful is that?"

"We can't all get what we want," Parvati said, shooting a glare at Lavender. "There's no sense in getting mad at people for something that wasn't their own choice. Do you see me going around being mad at Mandy Brockhurst? Do you?"

"I expect we're going to," Hermione said.

"Well, you're not," Parvati said. "Not even if I _do_ think she's a mouthy little tart. How she got into Ravenclaw, I'll never know, not with all her brains in her _bust_!"

The boys, Harry included, were taken aback.

"Maybe," Lavender said sweetly, "Mandy is actually interested in what Professor Firenze _teaches_."

"Why, you --!"

"Gosh," Neville said as the two of them started hissing and spitting like cats and Hermione hurried over to try and break it up. "I liked it better when they were giving each other the silent treatment."

Even Ron had been startled out of his funk, and was gazing at Parvati with trepidation. "And I thought her sister was the scary one," he said.

"I'm coming to the conclusion that they're _all_ scary," Harry said.

The three of them took advantage of the moment to slip away, up the stairs to their dormitory room where Dean and Seamus were already peacefully, blamelessly asleep. Harry wondered, listening to their snores coming from behind the curtains of their four-posters, if maybe Ron was right and they were the lucky ones after all.

He didn't want to add to the evening by telling anyone his news, and by morning he was too late. He shuffled downstairs into the common room, only half awake, to be bombarded with applause and cheers.

Peeling his eyelids the rest of the way open, Harry saw that a huge scarlet banner had been strung over the mantle. CONGRATULATIONS HARRY NEW GRYFFINDOR QUIDDITCH CAPTAIN!!! it proclaimed in twinkling gold letters. The banner was also decorated with gold hoops and tiny figures zooming about on broomsticks.

"How ...?" he managed.

"Nearly Headless Nick told Ginny," Neville said. "And you can guess the rest."

Harry groaned. He could guess the rest, all right.

A second later, Ginny herself bounded up and threw her arms around him. In the old days, she would have been too shy to do this even in her most torrid imaginings, but she had gone around to regarding Harry like one of her brothers.

"I knew it!" she crowed. "I knew you'd be the one!"

"When did you find out?" Ron asked.

"Uh ... last night," Harry admitted.

"And you didn't say anything?"

"It didn't seem like the right moment, what with Lavender and Parvati fighting," Harry said. "Are they still?" he added, looking around and not seeing either of them.

"Hermione dragged them off to meet with McGonagall before breakfast," Ginny said. "You're Seeker again, right? You're taking your old place back?"

"If you're sure, _really_ sure, that you want to step down," Harry said.

"I guess that depends on how I do at Chaser tryouts," she said, giving him an impish grin.

"I bet you'll do great."

She hugged him again, so tight that she squeezed the breath out of him, and joined the crowd streaming through the portrait hole.

"Captain," Ron said. "Not bad."

"I should have told you," Harry said, hearing the disappointment in Ron's voice. "Last night, I mean."

"You... um... keeping any of the old team on?" Ron asked diffidently.

"What's that supposed to mean? Of course I am! You heard Ginny. She wants to become a Chaser, and we've got the openings."

"What about Keeper?"

"Are you quitting?"

Ron shuffled his feet.

Harry grabbed his arm. "Ron?"

"You know I'm no good."

"I don't know any such thing. You won last year. You were so excited when you told me and Hermione about it... I thought you were done with all that stuff about not being any good."

"I've had all summer to think about it, all right? If the other teams hadn't done so badly, there's no way Gryffindor would have won."

"Stop it," Harry said. "Just stop it, will you? You're on the team. You're Keeper. Weasley is our King, remember?"

He flinched. "I can do without that, okay?"

"Okay, if you'll leave off with this other stuff about quitting the team."

As they prepared to head downstairs, Ron caught at his sleeve. Harry turned. Ron's freckled face was drawn and worried.

"One thing, though?"

"What?" Harry asked.

"Make sure... make sure you get a good reserve Keeper. Just in case... you know, Hagrid and the spiders and the Blast-Ended Skrewts and all."

Harry clapped him on the back. "How about I just tell Hagrid that he better not let anything bite off any body parts?"

"I'd appreciate it," Ron said, without a trace of humor.

Down in the Great Hall, word had evidently gotten around about the various Student Apprentice assignments. Malfoy was preening at the Slytherin table, but to Harry it looked false and forced, the death of Crabbe perhaps pushed into the back of public consciousness but still very much on the minds of Malfoy, Goyle, and the other Slytherin sixth-years.

Care of Magical Creatures was Harry's first class of the day. He hadn't really wanted to stay on with it, but couldn't bring himself to say as much to Hagrid. Hermione was in a similar boat.

"It isn't that I don't think they're _interesting_, his lessons," she said. "They are certainly _interesting_. But I do wish he could stick to safer creatures."

"I don't know how you can stand it, going back," Seamus said. "Believe me, I like Hagrid and all, but I'm counting myself lucky to have gotten this far with all my fingers intact. I don't envy you, Ron."

"Thanks," Ron said sourly.

So many of their fellow sixth-years had opted out of Care of Magical Creatures that, like with Potions, all four houses were combined into one session. Ron left a bit early to help Hagrid set up, and by the time the others got there, he was out at the edge of Hagrid's yard, pasty-white and leaning on the paddock fence for support.

This did little to hearten the spirits of the others, and when Hagrid came around the corner of his cabin lugging something huge, black, bristly, and eight-legged, Hermione wasn't the only girl to scream.

"'S'all right," Hagrid chortled, as the class retreated in fast backward steps. "Dead, innit? I just wanted yer t' have a look at what they'll be like when they're full grown and all."

So saying, he flopped the enormous dead spider onto the grass. It looked like a half-deflated furry bean-bag with legs. Its yellowed-ivory mandibles were halfway open and crusted with dried foam. It had enough glazed pomegranate-colored eyes that it seemed to be staring at each and every student.

To be continued in Chapter Fourteen -- Defense and Disquiet ... coming Friday, December 17, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	14. Defense and Disquiet

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Fourteen: Defense and Disquiet   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously: 

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water Chapter Twelve -- Sixth Year Surprises Chapter Thirteen -- Student Apprentice 

* * *

Over the next week or so, Harry became more and more aware of a nagging disquiet that he could not quite put his finger on. 

Something was bothering him. 

What? 

His lessons were going well enough. Better, even, than before. With the pressure of the O.W.L.s reserved for the fifth-years and the N.E.W.T.s for the seventh-years, the sixth-years had a comparatively easy time of it. Less homework, too. 

Life in Gryffindor tower wasn't exactly peaceful, but then it never had been. The gap left by Fred and George Weasley had not yet been filled by any new tricksters, so there were far fewer practical jokes, explosions, or testing of products on unsuspecting younger students. At the same time, though, there were going to be far fewer parties with butterbeer and pastries, because no one else who knew how to approach the house-elves in the kitchen would dare do so with Hermione on the S.P.E.W. warpath. 

Lavender and Parvati had made up, though their friendship seemed more strained than it had been. Harry, who had been at odds with Seamus, Hermione, and Ron at various points over the years, could sympathize but expected they would get over it eventually. 

The D.A. was off to a good start, too. Gwenna Golden had told her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes about it, and recommended it for likely students third year and up. Of course, no Slytherins bothered to attend the first meeting, which was held on Friday evening, but so many others did that it had to be moved from Professor Golden's classroom to the Great Hall. Harry hadn't wanted to just blithely give out the location of the Room of Requirement. 

He had been a little nervous when addressing a couple of dozen people in the Hog's Head, but had gotten used to it fairly quickly. Walking in and seeing over a hundred interested students waiting for him, on the other hand, had left him so nervous he'd almost lost his nerve. 

The house tables had been replaced with rows of cushioned chairs, and the first two rows were taken up by a solid block of former D.A. members. Even Cho was there, to Harry's amazement. Her friend Marietta remained absent, and there was a rather chilly distance between Cho and Hermione, who had wrought the seemingly unbreakable jinx in the first place. 

Harry stood before them, hoping his voice wouldn't fail him. Professor Golden was present, too, but had taken a seat off to the sidelines and nodded at him as if to say that this was wholly his show. 

"Um, hi," he said into the expectant stillness. "I thought that maybe I could start off by telling you all how the D.A. came about, and what it is that we do. And how nice it is to be able to do this openly for a change!" 

Most of them laughed, but some of them, remembering Umbridge all too well, shivered with revulsion. 

He told them how Hermione had been the one to come up with the idea of forming a student group to practice defense spells. "It's none of our fault," he said, "but let's face it  we've had a bumpy run. Good teachers, bad teachers, good teachers who turned out to be bad, bad teachers who turned out to be worse. And as I hope everybody knows by now, it's really important that we learn these spells most of all. We might need them." 

An entire summer of reading about Voldemort's return, instead of reading about how Harry was a lunatic, brought murmurs of agreement from all around the room. 

After giving an abridged version of last year's D.A. activities  glossing over the bit about Marietta for Cho's sake  he described some of the spells that they had practiced, then called upon people to demonstrate. When they saw Neville perform a flawless Shielding Charm, they cheered, and Ginny's griffin-shaped Patronus drew cries of admiration. 

He wrapped up with telling them that if they wanted to join, they only had to sign up, and that meetings would take place every other Friday at this same time. 

"There's no spell on this paper, is there?" asked a Ravenclaw third year dubiously. 

"No," Hermione said. "There's no need, because this year we're allowed to meet openly and don't have to worry about anyone  ah  no. There's no spell." She turned pink and looked over at Cho, but Cho was maintaining an expression so neutral that she could have been a statue. 

"I don't suppose you want to come down to Hagrid's with me?" Ron asked without much hope, as a crush of students went for the sign-up sheets. 

"Why?" Harry asked carefully. 

Ron had survived his trip to Aragog's lair, though he had come back to the dormitory very late that night, ashen-faced, and smelling suspiciously like Hagrid had given him a large helping of liquid courage. He had toppled across his bed, face-down and snoring almost as soon as he hit the mattress, still in his muddy shoes with twigs and leaves clinging to his clothes and hair. He'd been fifteen minutes late for class the next morning and hungover until well past lunch. 

"Wanted to talk to you about tomorrow's Quidditch tryouts," Ron said. 

"You're not quitting on me again, are you?" 

"No," Ron said. 

"What, then? _Does_ Hagrid want you to do something that's going to get you mauled before our first game?" 

"No," he said again, with a strained smile. "It's the other way 'round  I'm hoping I get knocked off my broom so that I can skip helping Hagrid." 

Harry didn't think he was joking. And though he had a lot else to do and didn't particularly want to see these spider eggs before he absolutely had to in Care of Magical Creatures, he went with Ron down to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 

The night was warm and still, moonlight painting a silver track across the lake, and in the absence of a breeze the forest still whispered and rustled with its own secret breath. Hagrid's windows were a welcome orange glow, but Ron's shoulders sagged more and more with each step. 

"Is it that bad?" Harry asked. "The spiders?" 

"Wasn't even thinking about that," Ron said. "I try not to think about it. Only way I can get through this without screaming, if you want to know the truth." 

"Have you talked to Hagrid? Do you want me to?" 

"It won't do any good," Ron said dolefully. "Harry, what am I going to do? Mum wrote and said she was so proud I'd been picked, but I could tell she wasn't really. Apprentice to the gamekeeper. It's like Malfoy's wish come true." 

"It's only for this year," Harry said. "Or you could talk to Dumbledore." 

Ron laughed a little. "Funny hearing you say that. After all the times Hermione and I have suggested _you_ talk to Dumbledore, and you brush it off." 

"Mmm," Harry said. He didn't really have a good comeback to that, because of course Ron was absolutely right. 

"And it isn't just that," Ron said. "It's what I said on the train, do you remember? About Hogsmeade?" 

"What about it?" 

"First weekend is coming up in the beginning of October," Ron said. "And, if you remember, I went and opened my big fat mouth and said I'd ask a girl to go with me." 

"Ah," Harry said. "You did say that." 

Ron stopped and turned to him. They were close enough now that the light from Hagrid's windows let him see his friend's face clearly, and he realized that Ron was not looking at all well. It wasn't just Hagrid and his spiders, either. A rash of pimples had cropped up among Ron's freckles, and dark puffy smudges were under each eye. 

"Ron, are you all right? You look bloody awful." 

"You've got to help me, Harry." 

"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person if you're wanting advice on girls," Harry said. "You saw how well everything worked out with me and Cho last year. I understand girls about as much as I understood Divination. But look, Ron  nobody's really going to hold you to that." 

"But they'll know. They'll laugh." 

"Who, Ginny?" 

"And Hermione." 

"If you want advice on girls," Harry said in sudden inspiration but without pausing to think about what he was saying, "you should ask Hermione. She was dead on with everything about Cho, and " 

"I can't do that!" Ron cried, clearly horror-stricken. 

"Ginny, then," Harry said. "Though I'm not too sure about her  she either thinks Luna fancies you, or that you and Hermione are going to end up together." 

"Forget it," Ron said, his face now as red as his hair and the blemishes a dark, alarming maroon. He went on toward Hagrid's, and Harry had to trot to keep up with his long-legged strides. 

Realizing that he had unwittingly struck a nerve, Harry almost asked Ron which girl he _was_ interested in  Luna or Hermione. Both seemed on the surface to be ludicrous choices. Luna was, for all she had a well-meaning nature, something of a dingbat. And Hermione and Ron had been bickering nonstop for as long as Harry had known them. 

Hagrid opened the door, his large body blotting out the firelight. His bearded face broke into a wide grin. "So yeh've brought Harry along, have yeh, Ron? Come in, come in, both o' yeh. I'm jest sortin' 'em, one fer ever'body." 

Steeling himself like a man mounting the steps to the guillotine, Ron entered the cabin and Harry followed. Fang, the boarhound, slobbered a greeting. The warm, smoky single-room interior was sized to suit Hagrid, which meant that their feet didn't touch the floor when they sat at the large butcher-block table and the mugs of steaming tea were almost as capacious as the cauldrons they used in Potions class. 

The surface of the table was covered with many small wooden cups, shaped like thimbles that would have fit Hagrid's big fingers. Their lids, little caps, made them resemble oddly-shaped acorns. Each had a label affixed to the side, with students' names printed on them in Ron's handwriting. A disgusting, rotted smell arose from the cups. 

"Yeh're jest in time," Hagrid said happily. "I've got it all set up." 

Apprehensive, Harry found a cup marked 'Potter' and lifted the lid gingerly, ready to slam it shut in a hurry if anything looked likely to jump out. Nothing did, but the rotten smell intensified. 

"I've already loaded 'em up with a bit o' raw meat," Hagrid explained, "an' let it ripen up fer a couple days. If yeh look closer, Harry, yeh'll see how it's gone nice and putrid. Now we jest have ter put the eggs in." 

He brought the egg sac to the table, carrying it on a large serving tray like the world's worst meal. The sac was an oblong puffy cocoon of thick spiderweb strands, grimy grey instead of white, with leaves and twigs caught in the sticky strings. 

"You'll want these," Ron said, passing Harry a pair of gloves that were not merely the dragonhide they wore to protect their skin from corrosive ingredients in Snape's classroom, but a double thickness of dragonhide covered with a fine mesh of goblin-wrought chainmail. 

"Do I want to know why?" he asked, putting them on. 

"Once we start the cuttin', yeh'll know," Hagrid said, going to the hearth. 

The handles of his gardening shears poked out of the fire, and when he picked them up, the long blades were red-hot. He took out two pairs of metal tongs which had been heating as well, and gave these to Harry and Ron. 

Hagrid bent over the egg sac. He was usually so coarse and thundering in his movements that it was a surprise to see the delicacy with which he slid one of the shear-blades into the stringy webbing. He snipped, and the strands popped apart. Something blackish-green dribbled out, smoking when it hit the table. 

"Acidic venom," Hagrid said, sounding as proud as a new parent. "The mama spider secretes it, see. It don't hurt the spiders none, but it keeps any predators from tryin' t' get at the eggs. Now, go on an' reach inside." 

"With my hands?" Gloves or no gloves, Harry wasn't about to stick his fingers into acidic venom of any sort. 

"With the tongs," Hagrid said. "Fish in there, real gentle-like. Eggs're about the size o' marbles. Fetch one out, an' put it in a cup." 

While Hagrid held the sides of the slit in the egg sac open, Harry carefully poked the tongs down into the murky swamp of venom. Sure enough, there were objects rolling around in there, roundish ones about the size of marbles. 

"Don' go pinchin' too hard, now," Hagrid cautioned. 

Harry brought out the tongs, holding a spider egg. Ron took the lid off a cup and Harry deposited the egg inside. 

"Good job," Hagrid said. "That's one down already." 

There were a lot of cups on the table, one for every student who was taking Care of Magical Creatures. And into each of them went a spider egg. Hagrid explained that even if the eggs hatched before the designated class, the spiderlings would be trapped inside and able to survive perfectly well on the scraps of rotted meat. 

"And what do we do with them after they hatch?" Harry asked. "Send them back to Aragog?" 

"These lot are fer the castle," Hagrid said. "We'll train 'em up good an' turn 'em loose. Unless anybody's wantin' ter keep one fer a pet, mind. That'd be fine, too. Yeh've got yer cats, rats, toads, an' owls  why not a spider or two?" 

"Why not?" echoed Ron hollowly. 

"Hagrid," Harry said, "are you sure it's all right? Letting them loose in the castle, I mean?" 

"Sure! It's Dumbledore's own idear, ain't it?" 

"It is?" 

"Fer shame, Harry  yeh of all people should remember. Spiders, they have a way o' knowin' things. Sensin' things. Like if another basilisk turns up." 

"What do you mean, another basilisk?" Harry's arm throbbed. The tears of a phoenix had healed the deadly wound, but he would never forget how it had felt to have the basilisk's fang plunge into his flesh. 

"It's because of You-Know-Who," Ron said. 

"Been hearin' strange news," Hagrid said. "Yeh know a basilisk's no ordinary snake. Has ter come from a rooster's egg what's been brooded on by a toad, or summat. That's why they can't bear all the crowin'." 

Hagrid went on about basilisks for some time, while Harry listened with half an ear and focused most of his concentration on transferring spider eggs into the individual wooden cups. He couldn't imagine that any of the third, fourth, fifth or sixth years would be overjoyed when they were given the cups with their names on. 

Nor did he particularly think they'd _need_ a flock of skittering giant spiders roaming the Hogwarts halls. The basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets was dead, and even if Voldemort managed to get hold of another one, there was no way he could sneak it into Hogwarts. 

After, with their hands feeling hot and blistery despite the protective gloves, Harry and Ron helped Hagrid drain the rest of the venom into special flasks to be delivered to Professor Snape. 

"How's Grawp doing these days, Hagrid?" Harry asked, not wanting to think about the many uses Snape might have for spider venom. 

Hagrid beamed. "Grawpy's fine, Harry, jest fine! He's got him a nice cave down deep in the Forest, settin' it up all homey with a bed o' rushes. There's not much that'll be givin' him any trouble." 

"Even the centaurs?" Ron asked. 

"Er, well, yeh do know that the centaurs  well  they were none too pleased with ever'thing that happened las' year. Firs' Firenze up and leaves 'em, an' then there was that whole mess with yeh, Harry, an' Hermione, an' that Umbridge woman." 

"What did happen?" Harry leaned forward. "Do you know? The last Hermione and I saw, the centaurs had carried Umbridge away and then Grawp charged in and started knocking them around. He didn't kill any, did he?" 

"And Dumbledore went into the forest," Ron said. "He came back with Umbridge, but nobody ever said how he rescued her." 

Hagrid scratched his vast beard. "Dunno how he managed that, myself. As fer the centaurs, after Grawpy walloped 'em around a bit, them as could run did run, as far an' as fast as they could. Them as couldn't run, well, a few of 'em still live nearby but they're wantin' nothing t' do with the likes o' us." 

"Did  did Grawp " Harry couldn't quite bring himself to ask if Hagrid's 'little' brother had killed any of the centaurs. 

"Nah," Hagrid said. "Tol' yeh, didn't I, that Grawpy was getting' civilized?" 

Harry and Ron left the hut a short time later, and headed for the castle. They didn't speak much, each lost in his own thoughts. 

Saturday, the day of the scheduled team tryouts, dawned clear and gorgeous. It was a perfect September day for flying. Harry got up early, ate before anyone else, and went out to the Quidditch pitch. The six goal posts rose against a flawless blue sky. 

Taking advantage of a few free moments, Harry mounted his Firebolt and kicked off into the sky. It felt wonderful, the wind whipping past him, and he whooped aloud at the glorious sense of freedom. Except for that one brief ride with Tonks, the night she and Moody had burst in on him and Jane, he hadn't been on a broom in ages. His Firebolt had spent much of last year chained in Umbridge's office. 

He zoomed, he sped, he soared. Eventually, he saw that other people were arriving, and reluctantly descended to meet them. 

Several hopefuls had come to try out for the team, and all the veteran players were there. It gave Harry a strange feeling to see that everyone who'd been on the team when he had first become Seeker was now gone. The inexorable marching progress of time and graduation had seen to that. 

Most of Gryffindor turned up to watch. Professors McGonagall and Golden were there, as was Madame Hooch. A handful of spectators from other Houses came as well, including Luna Lovegood from Ravenclaw and Tiberius Flint from Slytherin. 

Tiberius' older brother Marcus had been Slytherin captain. Harry remembered him all too well. Marcus had looked like a troll; Tiberius was lean and quick and looked more like a snake. 

Harry got the old team up in the air to fly a few practice moves before starting the tryouts. He was glad to see that Ron was not nearly as stiff and awkward as he had been the previous year. Harry hadn't ever had much of a chance to watch Ginny perform before, and he saw that while she'd been a decent Seeker, she really did have the competitive edge better suited to a Chaser. 

When the tryouts began, it was immediately apparent that Gryffindor second-year Gawain Gresham was the stand-out pick of the litter. His nickname, Flash, was well-deserved. He flew fast and well, and Madame Hooch informed Harry that not only did Gresham's father work for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but that his mother was a columnist for _Which Broomstick_ magazine. 

"Not to influence your decision, Potter," she added with a devilish twinkle in her eye, "but I'm told that if young Flash there makes the team, his parents have promised him a Nimbus Maximus, the new prototype that won't even be up for sale until just before the Christmas rush. It helps having connections." 

McGonagall, who was near enough to overhear, shook her head in admiring delight. "A Firebolt _and_ a Nimbus Maximus on the same team? I'd like to see any of the other Houses top that." 

Harry put Flash through his paces and found that the younger boy  short, stocky, with a tuft of straw-blond hair and a wind-chapped face from a childhood spent almost as much on a broomstick as on his own two feet  was as natural a flyer as Harry himself. Flash lacked the patience to be a Seeker or Keeper, and was too good a sport to bat a Bludger at the head of an opposing player, but put a Quaffle in his hands and he was unstoppable. 

Next up was Dennis Creevey, Colin's younger brother. Dennis, like Colin, had come to Hogwarts a small, skinny kid. But unlike Colin, Dennis had undergone a growth spurt of Hagrid-esque proportions and put on thirty pounds of muscle, and probably could have passed for a sixteen-year-old in dim light. Dennis retained all of his usual devil-may-care enthusiasm, belting Bludgers with such vigor that he almost unseated Ginny and forced Harry into a spinning dive to avoid having his nose smashed. 

By the time tryouts were done, the sun was noontime-high and more of a crowd had gathered. Harry spotted a familiar dark ponytail in a cluster of Slytherins that had formed around Tiberius Flint. He barely caught himself in time to not wave to Jane Kirkallen. 

He landed, congratulated his new and improved team, then climbed into the stands to watch the Slytherin tryouts. He ached pleasantly from the exercise and his stomach was a growling beast, and when he saw the large picnic hamper that Neville had brought, he tore into a roast beef sandwich like he hadn't eaten in weeks. 

But his appetite began to fade as his earlier sense of disquiet returned. And it was more than a bothersome tickle at the back of his mind this time. It was like a phantom itch that he couldn't even locate, let alone scratch. 

"They're not flying very well at all, are they?" Hermione observed, peeling an orange into neat wedges with a spell Professor Flitwick had taught them on Thursday. 

"They never do," Harry said. 

"No, she's right, they're worse than usual," Neville said. 

And if even Neville and Hermione, both of whom hated to fly, could tell  

Harry took a closer look. Just as the Gryffindors had done, the veteran Slytherin players were flying a few practice goals and formations before beginning the tryouts. 

None of them had ever exactly been graceful in the air, except for Malfoy. Malfoy  it galled, but Harry did have to hand it to him  could fly almost as well as Flash Gresham. The others  even the two new girls on the Slytherin team  all tended to be beefy brutes who were more interested in midair collisions and committing physical fouls on the opposing players than they were in the skill of the game. 

Today, though, even Malfoy was off. He was easy to spot in the green-clad blurs, being smaller than the rest and having that white-blond hair. 

"Something's been bothering me all week," Harry said, watching as Goyle took a lackadaisical swing at a Bludger and missed. "I couldn't put my finger on it, but something's been missing. Do you know, Malfoy hasn't taunted me once since we got here?" 

Hermione looked at him as if this should have been obvious to the thickest of people. Neville, though, bobbed his head with enlightenment dawning on his round face. 

"Ron, either," Harry continued. "And that should have been inevitable. You know he can't resist having a go at Ron, but here Ron's been Student Apprentice to Hagrid all this time and Malfoy hasn't said a word." 

"He did lose two of his friends," Hermione said. "On the same day, no less." 

"So?" The hard tone coming from Neville made both Hermione and Harry blink in surprise. "Does that mean we're supposed to feel sorry for him? For Draco Malfoy?" 

"Well " Hermione began, nonplussed. 

"I'm not saying I feel sorry for him," Harry said, though he was amazed to discover that he did, a little anyway. Sorrier, perhaps, for Goyle than for Malfoy. 

"There's nothing wrong with it," Hermione said. "Crabbe and Nott may have been Slytherin, and we may not have liked them, but they were still human beings." 

"Barely," Neville grumbled. 

She poked him in the ribcage, and he winced. "They were boys," she said. "Boys our own age, and now they're _dead_. They aren't expelled, they aren't away on holiday. They are dead, and they're never coming back." 

"Good thing, too." Ron walked up at that moment and helped himself to a chicken salad sandwich. "Can you imagine if they did come back? Crabbe, haunting the prefects' bathroom, naked and poached like an egg?" 

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione cried. "How can you say something like that? Have you no respect for the dead?" 

"No respect for Slytherins, dead or alive," he said, unconcerned in the face of her ire. "Look at them up there. They fly like wounded elephants. And to think, I was worried _I_ was no good." 

"No, Hermione is right," Harry said heavily. "We should feel bad for them." 

"Did they feel bad for you when your godfather died?" Neville replied, sticking his chin out. His normally mild eyes sparked with ire. "Malfoy's _father_ was there and he would have killed us if he could. So pardon me if I refuse to feel bad on his behalf." 

He got up and stalked off. Ron, eyes bulging with astonishment and cheeks bulging with chicken salad, mumbled something incoherent. 

"For goodness' sake, Ron!" Hermione lifted her gaze to the skies. 

Ron chewed, swallowed, belched. "Sorry. I asked what you'd been talking about when I came up." 

"Malfoy," Harry said. "Have you noticed, he hasn't had a go at either of us in ages?" 

"Noticed? I've been thanking my lucky stars," Ron said. "I can do without his remarks." 

"It feels wrong, though." 

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed. "Of course it does. You're used to having Malfoy as an adversary. You  you thrive on it." 

"Gee, thanks a lot, Hermione. I happen to despise him." 

"Exactly! And part of you _enjoys_ despising him. It's no fun if you don't have anyone to struggle against." 

"Excuse me?" He goggled at her. "I've got Voldemort to struggle against!" 

"You're both impossible," she said, crumpling up the waxed paper that had wrapped her sandwich. 

"Well, that's a lot of help," Ron said, brushing crumbs from his chin. In the bright sunshine, his pimples looked worse than ever. "What, you think we're so shallow that we can't feel good about ourselves unless we're getting the better of Malfoy? That Harry here can't enjoy his hero complex if he doesn't have a villain?" 

"I've got a villain!" Harry exclaimed, flinging his hands in the air. "Didn't I just say so?" 

"Pardon us, Hermione, if we think we can do bloody well without Malfoy," Ron said. "I had enough choruses of his version of 'Weasley is Our King' to last me a lifetime, thank you very much, and enough of his digs about my father's job and my family's house. If he's down in the dumps over Crabbe, that's a right shame and all, but it would suit me fine if he never came out of it. After all Harry and I have put up with, you don't hardly know what it's like " 

"I'm the one he calls a Mudblood!" Hermione shouted, then clapped her hand over her mouth as everyone nearby turned to stare, incredulous, in her direction. Quieter, she said, "So I think I have an idea what it's like, all right?" 

"Hermione, Ron didn't mean " 

"Just forget it," she said, getting up in a flinging whirl of bushy brown hair. "You're hopelessly thick, both of you, thick as concrete." 

"Hermione!" Ron called after her as she stormed off, but it was no use. She didn't look back. "I swear  girls!" 

As if this had been a summons, Luna Lovegood drifted over and sank dreamily onto a bench. She poked through the picnic hamper, selected a bunch of grapes and popped one off the stem. "Do you know what I heard?" she asked in her vague, distant voice. 

"Everything, I reckon," Ron said. "None of that was what I'd call subtle." 

"I heard that Professor Snape got the headmaster's permission for some of his students to form their own study group," Luna said, as if Ron hadn't spoken. "On the grounds that they don't think they would be welcome in ours." 

"Oh, yeah?" Harry asked, not shocked in the least. 

Ron, though, had just taken another big bite of chicken salad sandwich, and sputtered chunks of it down the front of his Quidditch robes. "What? Snape? A study group for Slytherins?" 

"Well," Harry said, "can you see any of them coming to a D.A. meeting?" 

"Not unless they wanted a helping of Bat Bogey Jinx," Ron said, glowering. "But you know a group like that wouldn't be studying defense spells! It'll be a damned Dark Arts group! And Dumbledore allowed it?" 

Luna nodded. "You flew very well today," she said to Ron. "I was watching." 

"I  uh " he stammered, and swiped his sleeve across his face. "Thanks." 

"I know it's disloyal to my own House," she said, twirling a strand of her dishwater-blond hair idly around her fingers, "but I think Gryffindor will win again this year." 

"Thanks," Ron said again, and looked desperately at Harry for help. 

Harry rummaged in the hamper, pretending to sort through the sandwiches and really keeping an eye on Ron and Luna. She was gazing at him with what Harry thought a poet might describe as starry eyes, and never mind the pimples standing out in harsh relief in the bright sunshine, never mind the gobbets of chicken salad slopped all down the front of his robes. 

As the pause got longer and longer, it was on the tip of Harry's tongue to say something about the Hogsmeade weekend next month. But if he did that, there was a very good chance Ron might never speak to him again.   
Instead, when the silence became unbearable, he asked Luna what else she knew about this Slytherin study group. 

"They're meeting Sunday evenings," she said. "I overheard Devona Stormdark and Jane Kirkallen talking about it in the bathroom." 

Harry was sure that this was not at all coincidental. He risked a glance over at the Slytherins who sat watching a would-be Beater flailing madly at a Bludger, missing, and getting bowled over backwards as the Bludger plowed into his stomach. Luckily for him, he had only been five feet off the ground at the time, but he still landed hard.   
Jane was among the watchers, not the hopefuls. She sat near Pansy Parkinson, who screamed encouragement as Malfoy mounted his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, and Nadine Zellis. Jane's dark eyes met Harry's for just a moment, and then she looked away. But it was enough. He knew he was right. She'd let Luna overhear that discussion on purpose, confident that Luna would mention it to Harry. 

Most of the rest of the weekend, he devoted to homework and lesson plans for the first D.A. meeting. Hermione was still exasperated with him, but she might have been less so if she knew how much time he spent staring blankly at his Transfiguration textbook while really mulling over what she'd said. 

Was that it? Did he  unbelievable as it sounded  did he _miss_ Malfoy? Their constant enmity, verbal barbs thrown back and forth, even the occasional jinx when they thought they could get away with it  did he miss that? 

He did. He missed Draco-bloody-Malfoy, didn't feel the same edgy rush now around the pale, watchful stranger that had replaced his old enemy. 

Harry wasn't sure what that said about him. Did he need to define himself by contrast? Did he need, as Ron had suggested even though Ron had meant it sarcastically, a villain to be foil to his hero? 

_Was_ he as bad as his father? It used to please him, the thought of being so like James. He still did want to, in part anyway. The good side of James was what Harry wanted to emulate. Not the posturing show-offy side. 

On Sunday, he turned down Ron's offer of a game of wizard chess after dinner, turned down Ginny and Dean's invitation to play Exploding Snap. Claiming to have a headache, he went up to his dormitory room and pulled the curtains of his four-poster. 

The mirror was wrapped in cloth in the drawer of his bedside table, keeping company with a Quidditch play book, a glasses case that he always forgot to use, some loose change, a bent quill, a bar of Honeydukes chocolate, the photo album with the pictures of his parents, and a few Chocolate Frog cards  including Circe, because Circe was blonde and shapely and shown wearing a very sheer and skimpy toga-robe. 

He took it out, unwrapped it, touched the smooth dark glass, and said Jane's name. 

His reflection wavered, but all he found himself looking at was the inside of another drawer, with thin ribbons of light coming in through the cracks. He thought he could make out the shape of the box Jane had been carrying that night at the Leaky Cauldron, the one with which she'd cracked Kreacher over the head. The lid was ajar, and from the odd angle of the mirror he could just glimpse the feathery tuft of what might have been a quill, and something with the smooth sheen of glass. 

But he did not see Jane. 

To be continued in Chapter Fifteen -- Voices in the Silence ... coming Friday, December 24, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	15. Voices in the Silence

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Fifteen: Voices in the Silence  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me.

Author'sNote, additional --because the story will run so many chapters (at least 28, maybe 30), I'm now considering posting in twice-weekly installments, on Tuesdays and Fridays, starting after New Year's. E-mail me or send feedback with your opinions! 

Previously:

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts 

Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date 

Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress 

Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications 

Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower 

Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley 

Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife 

Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold 

Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott 

Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass 

Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water 

Chapter Twelve -- Sixth Year Surprises 

Chapter Thirteen -- Student Apprentice 

Chapter Fourteen -- Defense and Disquiet 

* * *

Harry barely even glimpsed Jane except at mealtimes over the next two weeks, except for the briefest of late-Sunday-night mirror conversations in which she gave him quick and uninformative updates on the Slytherin House version of the D.A. 

So far, the Dark Arts Club had done little but practice a few elementary curses on each other. And aside from Malfoy having spent most of a Monday in the hospital wing after Goyle accidentally erased his face entirely blank, sealing his eyes, mouth and nose so that he could not breathe, there was little progress to report.

Like Ginny, Colin, and the other fifth-years, Jane was rapidly coming to realize just what the O.W.L.s meant in terms of studies and homework. Harry could certainly sympathize, remembering all too well what it had been like. At least Jane, Ginny, Colin and the others weren't further hampered and stressed by what had gone on during the days of Dolores Umbridge.

Which wasn't to say that Harry's own days weren't filled. He had a new appreciation for Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, and had never previously comprehended how much work went into being Quidditch captain. It was his job to arrange times for practices that didn't conflict with the other teams, report regularly to Madame Hooch on the health and well-being of his players, read up on descriptions of past games, observe as many of the other teams in action as possible to get a better idea of their maneuvers and strategies and conduct equipment inspections. And he was personally responsible for maintaining the Gryffindor uniforms. In this, Tonks' Tailoring Charms came in handier than he ever would have thought.

Not only that, but he was busy with planning for the D.A. and performing his various duties for Professor Golden. These included grading papers and exams, collecting reference materials from the library and assisting in a few practical exercises. On one occasion, when Arcturus fell and split his chin and Winky appeared in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom wringing her hands and wailing hysterically, Professor Golden hurried with the distraught house-elf off to the hospital wing and left Harry in charge of a class of first-years.

Last but by no means least, he had his own homework.

Snape was not thrilled to have Harry and Neville in his Advanced Potions class, and made sure that they knew it by assigning them increasingly challenging research projects.

"You'll find," he told the class, "that this course is not for the faint-hearted, clumsy, or reckless. You may have all scraped by with the necessary O.W.L qualifications and Head-of-House recommendations to force your way in here " at this, he spared Harry a brief but cold look, " but none of that matters once these dungeon doors close."

Malfoy, his features restored to their usual sneer, regained a little of his swagger, and seemed to enjoy acting as Snape's Student Apprentice. He strolled around the room, peering into cauldrons and judging the preparation of ingredients with either a dismissive snort or a grudging nod.

Harry kept his ears open for any public mention of their Dark Arts club, though he doubted they would come right out and call it that. If the club had an official name, it was probably posted on the notice board in the Slytherin common room, which he had only seen once when in Polyjuice disguise. All he ever saw were even more than usual pointed looks from various Slytherins toward members of his D.A.

In Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid presented each student with one of the wooden cups and began teaching them how to care for the spiderlings. This did not go over as well as he obviously had hoped, as many people took one look, shrieked, and slammed the lids back on, refusing to open them again.

Transfigurations had become much more interesting when Professor McGonagall announced that they were finally ready to begin transforming people into animals instead of animals into other things. This was not the full Animagus spell; they could alter their form but not their mass, and so could not become anything much larger or smaller than themselves. They began with extremities-- foot into hoof, hand into claw, arm into tentacle-- and would not progress to whole-body alterations until after the holidays.

Harry, Ron and Hermione left their Transfiguration lesson one Wednesday with Ron still trying to shake the sensation back into his hand after accidentally transforming it into a solid lump of gristle and Harry limping because Hermione, prancing with her perfect cloven deer hooves, had trodden on his foot.

"I'm really sorry," she said for the third time. "I didn't know you were trying for flippers."

"I didn't expect it would work," he said. "I wouldn't try it again, either. Too much like the time Lockhart removed all the bones from my arm."

"Don't think I like this shape-shifting very much," Ron said, wincing as he massaged feeling back into his hand. "Did you hear what she said about head transformations?"

"Well, you did visit Egypt," Hermione said sensibly. "Do you believe that the entire pantheon of Egyptian gods were really just wizards who got stuck with animal heads? She was only trying to caution us."

They fell in behind a group of exhausted-looking fifth-year Slytherins who had just left the Charms classroom, and Harry found himself walking not four paces in back of Jane.

"Sixty pages by Monday?" said one of them, a striking girl with long hair in dramatic streaks of black and white. "Who does he think he is, giving us _sixty_ pages to read? And with Quidditch practice tonight."

"You don't play," replied a chunky boy with lower canines that jutted up like boar's tusks.

"I can still watch, can't I? What about you, Jane? Going to watch the session?"

"No," Jane said. "I have too much to do, and there's that test tomorrow in Ancient Runes --"

Tiberius Flint made a scornful noise. "Pff. Get a cheat-sheet."

"I think I'll just head up to the fourth floor right after dinner and find a spot in one of those study carrels."

"Oh, all right, be boring," the girl with the dramatic hair said. "But you'll give Slytherin House a bad name if you pass all your tests honestly."

"Who said I was?" Jane said with that hard-edged smile. "I just don't get caught."

The Slytherins turned down the steps to their dungeon, and Hermione looked scandalized. "'Get a cheat-sheet,'" she mimicked. "I ought to report him."

"Yeah, he'd be thrown off the team at least," Ron said.

"Come on," Harry said. "If they got thrown off just for cheating on tests, there wouldn't be a single player left on their team."

"Ruddy unfair," Ron said. "One of us tried that, and McGonagall would have our heads. But Snape just looks the other way. For all we know, he's the one providing the cheat-sheets. There's got to be some reason why all these Slytherins keep passing."

"They aren't all stupid, Ron," Hermione said. "Some of them are clever. Those are the dangerous ones."

They went up to Gryffindor tower to drop off their books before dinner. On the way to the Great Hall, Hermione asked Harry if he thought that Jane meant what she'd said about cheating.

"Why? Going to report her, too?"

"No, I... I just wonder, that's all."

Ron snickered. "I bet if you wanted, she could hook you up with an Ancient Runes cheat-sheet."

"That isn't funny," she said, elbowing him. "Besides, I don't need one."

"Oh, rub it in, you're brilliant, how could we forget?"

"Jane's all right," Harry said. "She does what she has to do in order to get by, that's all. If you were basically honest but still in Slytherin, you'd probably pretend to cheat, too."

True to her word, Jane got up right after dinner and went upstairs, while many of her fellow Slytherins headed out to the Quidditch field to watch the practice session by twilight. The next upcoming match was Slytherin versus Ravenclaw, so it was no surprise when Harry saw Cho and a couple other members of the Ravenclaw team going out to watch the practice.

He should, too... Gryffindor would be playing Slytherin after their match with Hufflepuff... but...

He went up to the fourth floor, instead.

The study carrels were in a long room with high, narrow windows and a ceiling crisscrossed with creaky wooden rafters that looked ready to collapse at a loud noise. But there were no loud noises in here; each carrel was contained within its own Silencing Charm, which acted like a soundproof bubble. That way, students could read aloud or speak incantations without disturbing their neighbors. The only painting on the wall in here was a life-sized one of a mime, who walked against the wind, played tug-of-war with nobody, and pretended to be trapped inside a shrinking invisible box.

Harry walked up and down the rows of carrels. Many were empty, just desk tops surrounded on three sides by wooden dividers. There was a shelf above for books, an inkwell, and a drawer in each desk. A fan-shaped wedge of magical light, hanging from a chain that stretched up to the creaky rafters, illuminated each desk. The few students up here were mostly fifth or seventh-years, bent over their books and utterly oblivious as Harry went by. Some hadn't even been down to dinner, judging by the glasses of pumpkin juice and half-eaten packages of crisps.

He passed behind a couple of older Gryffindors, one of whom was waving his wand in a complicated series of flicks and jabs, the other of whom had fallen asleep with her head pillowed on a book titled _Muggle Physics: A Magical Explanation of Quantum Theory._

Jane was in one of the far corner carrels, a scroll of runes and their meanings magically affixed to the divider and a book he recognized as one of the ones Hermione had been lugging around all last year propped open in front of her. He could see the tip of a raven-feather quill twitching back and forth as she scribbled on a roll of parchment.

And something that gleamed darkly was sitting on top of a stack of books. The mirror.

Grinning, Harry walked on without interrupting her and found a vacant carrel. He set up his Transfiguration book with the pages open to Partial-Body Shapeshifting to make it look like he was studying, then took his mirror out of his pocket, held it in front of him, and said, "Jane Kirkallen."

The glass clouded over even darker than before, and cleared to reveal a view of the study hall ceiling. He hadn't been sure it would work; in addition to the Silencing Charms, each carrel was enveloped in a Containing Ward to make sure that no spell effects spilled out to interfere with anyone else's work.

"Jane?" he called softly. Though he _knew_ no one else could hear him, he had to fight an impulse to glance guiltily over his shoulder.

A hand appeared in the mirror, grasped it, and then the view swung around to show him Jane's face.

"I thought that was you behind us in the hall," she said. "I wondered if you'd hear me."

"I heard. Did you really need to study for Ancient Runes?"

"No, I have a cheat-sheet," she said.

"Um... oh."

She laughed. "Harry!"

"What? Ah! Okay."

"I don't cheat," she said in sudden seriousness. "I may do other things that aren't strictly nice, but I don't cheat."

"I didn't say --"

"I'm not angry. I only... well, I wanted to say it to somebody. So that... if anything ever happens... there will be at least one person who might... who might think I wasn't totally bad after all."

"What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Look, Jane," Harry said, "I may be a real dunce when it comes to girls, but I _do_ know enough to know that any time a girl says 'nothing' when you ask her what's wrong, it's never 'nothing.'"

"I don't think you're a dunce."

"About girls, I said."

"Are you?"

"Yeah. And I think this is what's called changing the subject."

"See, you're no dunce."

"All right, all right. Hey, thank you for letting me listen in on the train, and the reports. It's good to know what Malfoy's up to."

"Isn't that why you gave me this mirror? To spy on the Slytherins?"

"That wasn't the only reason," he said. "I did it so I could talk to you. I mean, it's not like we can strike up a conversation without people thinking it's weird."

"It _is_ weird," she said.

"So what? I like you."

"Careful, Harry," she warned, raising an eyebrow. "Girls get ideas when boys say things like that."

He hadn't meant it in _that_ way, had meant that he liked her as a friend, the way he liked Hermione, or Ginny.

Except, as he opened his mouth to say so, he looked again at her dark, steady gaze and the way her ponytail curved around her pale neck. She wasn't as pretty as Cho, but there was something... a shadow, a depth... something that a lot of the girls he knew didn't have.

Or maybe it was just that he saw an echo of his own lifelong misery in her eyes. They both knew what it was like to be brought up in the Muggle world, to be feared and unloved by Muggles who hated all things magical.

"Don't play games," he said. "You know what I meant."

"I know."

"We're kind of stuck. It's not like I could ask you to go to Hogsmeade with me."

"I said I know."

"Gryffindor and Slytherin --"

"I _know_, Harry!"

"But if I did, would you?"

"If... what?" she asked.

"If I did ask you, would you go? To Hogsmeade?" He felt like he sometimes did on his Firebolt, when he was diving after the Snitch with the ground rushing up at him and the wind whipping through his hair, trembling on the very edge of being completely out of control, knowing that if he couldn't pull up in time he would splatter himself all over the ground.

"Didn't you just say we shouldn't play games?" Jane asked somberly.

"I'm not."

"If things were different, then, yes. I'd go. But they're not, and they won't be, so what's the use of wondering?"

"Things can change."

"You're still Gryffindor. I'm still Slytherin."

Still, that wild feeling of out-of-control plunge. "Hogwarts isn't the whole world."

"What, then? Would you want to date me on summer holidays?" She shook her head and laughed ruefully. "If the vicar would let me out of the house, that is, and your aunt and uncle let _you_ out. And your bodyguards didn't find out. Because I have to say, Harry, I don't fancy the idea of having Aurors burst in and threaten me again."

"I'm sorry about that. But, Jane, that's not the whole world either. I won't be going back to Privet Drive forever."

"You're starting to scare me," she said. "Wouldn't you rather talk about the Dark Arts Club some more?"

"That isn't the only reason I wanted to talk to you."

"Harry...Harry, don't, all right?"

He stopped. "Okay. But, Jane --"

"I said I would if I could. Isn't that answer enough?"

"I guess it has to be."

"The first meeting wasn't much of anything," she said in a rush. "All of Slytherin House turned up and nobody else; they might as well have just held it in our common room. Professor Snape was there, brooding in the corner like a big black crow, but he didn't say much. It was all Pansy Parkinson's show."

"Not Malfoy's?"

Jane's mouth tightened. "He hasn't been the same since Vincent died."

"Vincent? Oh... Crabbe."

"It hit him hard. Goyle, too. They've always been inseparable."

"Because of their fathers," Harry said.

She cocked her head and looked at him, evaluating. "Did it ever strike you as odd that four students at Hogwarts whose fathers are Death Eaters were all the same age?"

"I hadn't thought about it," he said.

"There's a reason," Jane said. "An ugly one."

"What?" he asked.

"You have to understand that this is just stuff I've picked up here and there, around the common room and such. But apparently, seventeen years ago, someone made a prophecy involving You-Know-Who."

"I know about that one," Harry said, his hands curling into fists. "Believe me, Jane... I know all about it. A baby born in July to people who'd defied him. Either me or Neville, though it turns out it was me. Lucky me."

"But _he_ knew about it."

"About it. Not all of it."

"Well, what I heard was that, after learning about this prophecy, the Dark Lord got his most faithful Death Eaters together and told them that he wanted to plan for the future. For the next generation. He wanted an ongoing supply of loyal followers. So, several of his Death Eaters decided it was time to... to start families."

"What are you telling me?" Harry's voice rose, and he threw another guilty look around despite the Silencing Charm. "That the whole reason Malfoy and the others even _exist_ is because of that damned prophecy?"

"That's about the size of it," Jane said. "Maybe the Dark Lord wanted to be sure that even if he couldn't deal with this person of prophecy... with _you_... there would be other, younger Death Eaters around who could. So, devoted ones like the Malfoys, the Crabbes, the Goyles and the Notts provided him with a fine crop of babies to be raised in their evil tradition."

"Her and her big mouth," Harry muttered, thinking of Professor Trelawney, who had chosen the Hog's Head for her big interview with Dumbledore and then gone into her first-ever genuine Seer trance. "But it all fits, doesn't it? Somebody like Narcissa Malfoy probably hadn't even _wanted_ a child yet, probably was afraid it'd spoil her figure, but when Voldemort said so, what could they do but obey?"

"Not all of them had wives, or even willing mistresses," Jane said. "Or else you might've been up to your ears in junior Death Eaters."

"Wonder how the Sorting Hat would have handled it? That'd be a lot of Slytherins."

"Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this is because it came up at the last meeting."

"The prophecy and everything?"

"The prophecy and everything," Jane said. "And about how it's our duty to oppose you. Now, there are quite a few in Slytherin who come from families that weren't into the Dark Arts-- no Muggle-borns, though... a few half-bloods and the occasional oddball like me-- and not everyone was wild about the idea of openly aligning themselves with the Dark Lord. More because they're afraid of Dumbledore than you, though. No offense."

"None taken," Harry said. "What amazes me is that Dumbledore approved of the formation of such a group in the first place."

"Maybe he felt that if he didn't allow it, we'd just sneak off to some secret room and meet clandestinely," Jane said, a hint of her smile finally returning. "I don't know where he'd get such a radical notion, do you?"

"Nary a clue."

"Snape stepped in at that point, and reminded us once more that the purpose of the group was to study, to increase knowledge and practical skills, not to be political."

"Does he ever tell you stories about the good old days when _he_ was a Death Eater?"

Jane went very still. "Professor Snape was a Death Eater?"

"Dark Mark on his arm and everything."

"But... but ..."

"Oh, he's not anymore," Harry said offhandedly. "So he says, and Dumbledore believes him, so I guess that's supposed to be good enough for the rest of us. Jane, what is it? You look sick."

"I... I didn't know ..." she whispered. "I didn't know he was one. You didn't list him in your interview."

"I only told Rita Skeeter about the ones who were at the graveyard that night," Harry said. "Snape wasn't one of them. Neither was Karkaroff, the teacher from Durmstrang."

"Him, too? And you're sure? Sure about Professor Snape?"

"Oh, hey!" Harry said, finally seeing where she was going with this. "He quit a long time ago. He couldn't have had anything to do with what happened to your mother."

"How do you know that?"

"Dumbledore said so, and he wouldn't have hired Snape if Snape was still on Voldemort's side."

He saw tears welling in Jane's dark eyes, but she quickly turned the mirror away so that all he could see was a sheet of runes. He heard a hitching of breath and what might have been a muffled sob, and was on the verge of getting up and going around the carrels to her, onlookers and eavesdroppers be damned, when she turned the mirror back. Her eyes were reddened, a little wet, but she was composed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No, I am. I thought you knew. I wouldn't have sprung it on you like that. I didn't think."

"I knew he was interested in the Dark Arts," Jane said. "Everyone knows that, and how he's always wanted the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher but they keep passing him over."

"So he's probably happy to have this group, is he?"

"Actually, he doesn't seem all that happy."

"Extra work without the prestige?"

"Now I understand a little better why you hate him so much."

"That started before I had any idea he used to be a Death Eater," Harry said. "And, really, he hated me first. Because of my dad. They were enemies when they were students here, and Snape sort of... takes it out on me. I look just like my dad, so he figured I must _be_ just like him, too."

"Are you?"

"I used to hope so, used to want to be," Harry said. "Until I found out what he was really like. But that's not important now."

Jane nodded. "All right. The meetings, then. I'm not sure how it is with other Houses, but in Slytherin, it's hard to have a sensible, decisive discussion about anything because almost every single person feels the need to have his or her say. Even when they all agree, they have to make a big deal out of it. The whole 'pride, ambition and cunning' thing, which might as well be the motto of Slytherin House, carved over the fireplace in letters ten inches deep."

"Must've been fun." Harry privately thought that if he had to sit through all the braggarts in Slytherin House making speeches and tooting their own horns, his head might well have exploded.

Jane grinned. "You should have heard us debating whether or not to practice defensive spells. No one is about to come right out and _say_ that you and your friends had dished up one humiliating defeat after another, so we'd certainly _better_ learn them, but everyone was thinking it. Then Nadine Zellis suggested that we nominate officers, and that was when the meeting nearly turned into a brawl."

"Really? Malfoy wasn't automatically put in charge?"

"That was what Pansy wanted, but Richard Montague got up and said that Draco had gone soft since his father had been arrested, and then Gregory put his fist in Richard's eye, and Richard's friend Nigel jumped on Gregory, and Devonna jinxed Nigel, and that was when Professor Snape broke it up."

"Sounds like Goyle is getting back to his old self," Harry said. "I'd almost been feeling sorry for him. Um... how... how is everyone in Slytherin taking it? About Nott, and Crabbe?"

"Shocked," Jane said. "I don't know if I'd go so far as to say sad, really, except for Gregory, who was Vincent's best friend. Theodore wasn't close to anybody. A loner. He didn't even chum around much with Draco, though they were both from old, rich pureblood families, until after your interview."

"They don't still think I had anything to do with it, do they?"

Jane rubbed her hand across her mouth, and bit at her knuckle. Her gaze shifted away from his.

"_Do_ they?" pressed Harry.

"More like, it was a pretty big coincidence, both of them dying on the same day. Both of them killing themselves. Maybe Theodore was the suicidal type; his family had taken some hard hits in the wake of his father's arrest. But Vincent... I don't think anybody ever would have expected him to kill himself."

"Not his style," Harry said.

"Required too much initiative," Jane said. "Vincent was never much of a one to act on his own. And Gregory swears that Vincent hated baths, had a fear of water."

"_You_ don't think I was involved, do you?" he asked.

"No. But you being there, you finding him ..."

"Colin Creevey found him," Harry said. "What about Snape? What has he said?"

"Not much about that night," Jane said. "They questioned the portrait figure, a mermaid, but she slept through the whole thing. None of the other portraits or ghosts saw anything suspicious, not that I know of. So, ultimately, we have to accept that it's coincidence after all. It's certainly preferable to thinking that someone murdered him and got away with it."

She looked haunted by the prospect, and Harry thought back to how it had been when the whole school went around in terror of the dangerous lunatic, Sirius Black. Or the times when they went around in terror of the other dangerous lunatic, Harry Potter.

"Hogwarts is well-defended," he said. "Now more than ever. I don't think some stranger could get in here and hurt anybody."

"I'm sure you're right."

"Besides," he said in an effort to lighten her mood, "with all of us so busy learning jinxes, hexes and countercurses, woe to anyone who did come around Hogwarts looking for trouble."

"It's more likely that our two groups will start a war," Jane said. "That's the problem with learning all these neat spells... we'll all want to try them out on each other."

"Bit of a lopsided war, really. Three Houses against one?"

"That's nothing new. We Slytherins have always been shunned and hated."

They talked about classes for a while, Harry sharing his own experiences on the staggering amount of fifth-year homework and the stress of the O.W.L.s. They talked about Quidditch, which Jane followed avidly enough but didn't play-- "Can you imagine the vicar letting me buy a broomstick? Once, I saw he'd left his Bible open on his desk and the bit about how 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live' was underlined. That gave me a turn, I can tell you... I was twelve, and I didn't sleep for a week."-- and he told her all about the World Cup two years ago, and what Viktor Krum was really like.

It came as a complete surprise to him when the hanging lights dimmed, brightened, and dimmed again, the signal that it was quarter to nine. They'd been sitting and chatting through the mirrors for better than two hours, and neither of them had gotten any homework done.

He apologized, but Jane waved him off with a smile. "Ancient Runes is one of my best subjects," she said. "I'll be fine."

"Guess we'd better go, then."

"Good night, Harry." She ran her fingers down the glass.

Harry ran his down the glass as well, and in the instant before both mirrors clouded into darkness, it was as if their hands touched. He sat for a few moments longer, looking at his reflection.

"You're mad if you think what I think you're thinking," he said.

His own green eyes looked back at him steadily. Then he put the mirror away, collected his Transfiguration notes, and got up.

As he emerged from the magical bubble around the study carrel, the normal night-sounds of Hogwarts rushed in upon him. It normally was never loud at this hour, but after the perfect hush of the Silencing Charm, it was noisy as a train station. Footsteps and low voices and swishing robes filled the halls. The moving staircases groaned and gritted as they swung into new positions. Drafts whistled around windowpanes. Somewhere up on the fifth or sixth floor came the heavy crash of Peeves knocking over a piece of statuary on some unwary passer-by.

There seemed to be more people about than was usual for this time of night, when most should already have been back in their dormitories. Harry didn't pay much attention. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Hogwarts wasn't the whole world, he had said.

They wouldn't be Gryffindor and Slytherin forever.

It was only a few more years. Not that long to wait, really. He'd be out of school in two years, Jane in three. And it wouldn't matter then if they ...

"Password?" inquired the Fat Lady as he reached the entrance to Gryffindor tower.

"Castorpolluxia," Harry said, and she swung forward.

Ginny Weasley grabbed him by the arm as soon as he stepped through. "Harry! There you are! Where have you been?"

"Studying," he said, holding up his books. "Why?"

The common room was crowded, and full of a loud babble of conversation. Ginny nearly dragged him over to a corner where his friends were sitting. Ron was plastered from chin to hairline and ear to ear with olive-green muck that had dried to a cracked, flaky consistency.

"What happened to you?" Harry asked. "You look like a troll sneezed in your face."

"Mam Pomfee gay ih tuh mee," Ron said, doing his best to speak without moving his jaw or lips at all. Even so, flecks of the olive-green stuff sifted down into his lap. "Iss for theef damn pimmles."

Neville was not sitting with the others but pacing around behind Hermione, breathing fast and continually curling and flexing his fingers. Hectic red blotches colored his round cheeks. "We've got to _do_ something," he said vehemently.

"Hang on, what'd I miss?" Harry asked.

Now it struck him how anxious the people he'd passed in the halls had seemed... and the raised, nervous voices here in the common room...

Hermione had been bent over what he first assumed was homework. Now she held up the piece of paper, and turned it so he could see.

It was a single sheet of newsprint, with the _Daily Prophet'_s banner across the top. But instead of the usual headlines, columns, and photographs, there were only a few stark lines of text, the letters large, the ink a glaring, urgent red.

**EXTRA!! EXTRA!!**  
**Minister of Magic Murdered!**  
**You-Know-Who Strikes!**  
**Dark Mark at Scene of Crime!**  
**Dementors, Escaped Death-Eaters Behind Attack!**  
**A Full Report in Tomorrow's Edition!**

To be continued in Chapter Sixteen -- Ministry Requiem ... coming Friday, December 31, 2004.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	16. Ministry Requiem

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Sixteen: Ministry Requiem  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

_(Author's note additional -- starting next week, I'll be posting new chapters on Tuesdays and Fridays! and sorry that today's installment is late; the site wouldn't let me add it!)_

No one in Gryffindor tower would sleep that night. Harry guessed that hardly anyone in the entire castle would get more than a few winks of shut-eye.

Neville had been ready to rush out and take action that very instant. The fact that no one had the slightest idea where to begin searching for the Death-Eaters had no effect whatsoever on his desire to find them.

Because Ron couldn't talk well-- he had been warned not to try and use a spell to get rid of the pimples; no one had forgotten what happened to Eloise Midgen when she tried to hex hers away-- Hermione told Harry that the notices had arrived right after dinner in an unexpected flurry of owls. Everyone who subscribed to the _Daily Prophet_ had received a copy.

"McGonagall came up," she said, "and told us that Dumbledore's gone off to London and the teachers are all on high alert, but we're to go about our business normally."

"That's rubbish!" Harry cried. "Voldemort's finally made another move, one hell of a drastic one! And we're to sit and do nothing?"

"We have to find them!" Neville said. "We have to --"

"Stay put," Ginny said.

Harry hadn't much cared for Cornelius Fudge, who had been fussy and pedantic at the best of times, paranoid and vindictive at the worst of times. Fudge had been the one to willfully ignore Voldemort's return, doing the equivalent of closing his eyes, putting his fingers in his ears, and chanting, "la-la-la," or simply burying his head in the sand like an ostrich. Fudge had been quick to discredit Harry, to blame Dumbledore.

But to think that the little wizard in the pinstriped cloak and bowler hat was _dead_... murdered... that the last thing he'd probably seen was a flash of blinding green light...

He rubbed fitfully at his scar, which drew Hermione's notice like a hawk.

"Does it hurt, Harry? Are you sensing anything?"

"No," he said, taking his hand away. "I was thinking about Fudge, and about what Ron's dad said after the World Cup, about people coming home to find the Dark Mark floating over their houses."

At midnight, Professor McGonagall came in and told them, not unkindly, to get into their beds and at least _pretend_ to rest. She herself was fully alert and on edge, refusing to discuss anything with them until she had more information.

They all did their best to comply, leaving the common room for their respective dormitories. But in the room Harry shared with Dean, Seamus, Neville and Ron, they all only sat on their beds with the lights still on, speculating as to what might be happening in London.

"Reckon I'll hear something from Dad in the morning," Ron said. He had given up on the pimple-plaster, having washed it off so that he could speak freely. Unfortunately, it had not yet cured any of the pimples, only turned them peppermint-pink so that Ron looked polka-dotted. "What I don't get is why they'd go after Fudge. Smarmy git. It wasn't like _he_ was any real threat to... to You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort, Ron. Say it," Harry said.

Ron screwed up his face horribly. "Vuh... Vuh ..."

"Voldemort," Neville said. He was waxy-pale, his eyes huge, and held his breath after he said it as if he expected Voldemort to appear in a sudden billow of brimstone-smelling smoke. When he didn't, Neville released his breath. "Whew. I did it. I said his name. I can't believe I really said it. Voldemort. Voldemort!"

"All right already, Neville!" Ron cried. "Very good, very brave, huzzah, now will you _quit_?"

"Fudge finally did admit he was back, though," Harry said. "He was starting to do something about it, preparing people and all. Who'll be in charge with him out of the way?"

"Would've been Umbridge next, I think," Seamus said, shrugging. "After her, who knows? Lately, we've been running through Ministry officials almost as fast as Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers."

At breakfast Thursday morning, the Great Hall was unnaturally quiet. The meal went largely untouched, and at any small noise hundreds of heads swiveled as one to look up at the windows through which the owls made their usual entrance.

Even the teachers kept watching the upper windows, and Dumbledore's absence was more pronounced than ever. Only Firenze seemed unconcerned.

Rumors circulated faster than Fizzing Whizbees... the entire Ministry was destroyed... Fudge had died in a duel with You-Know-Who... Dolores Umbridge was really behind the assassination and would be resurfacing to take over, and would then get her revenge against everyone at Hogwarts who had ever defied or humiliated her-- which would have been _everyone_ above first year at Hogwarts, except for Filch and a few members of her Inquisitorial Squad.

At last, with a whipping flutter of wings, flocks of owls sped in through the high windows. For once nobody minded the feathers and odd droppings falling into their oatmeal bowls and juice glasses. Never had so many owls been divested of their burdens so swiftly.

Those who didn't subscribe to the _Daily Prophet_ crowded close to those who did, and the pushing and shoving was so agitated that Professor Flitwick cast a Projection Charm on his copy, to duplicate the front page a hundred times its original size. It hovered in mid-air above the teachers' table.

A black-bordered box framed a photo, above the words CORNELIUS FUDGE, MINISTER OF MAGIC, SLAIN IN HOME. In the picture, which must have been taken at some Ministry function, Fudge wore formal robes and a short conical wizard's hat instead of his customary bowler. He did not smile and wave as many wizard photos did; the Fudge in the picture looked mournful, as if understanding the reason he'd made the front page.

"Listen to this!" Ron blurted. "_An horrific scene awaited Junior Undersecretary to the Minister Percy Ignatius Weasley when he dropped by to deliver some important paperwork last night to Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge. Upon finding the dreaded Dark Mark_--_ see photo, page 2_--_ suspended above the house, Mr. Weasley threw thoughts of his own safety to the winds and dashed inside._" He rattled the paper. "Blimey! _Percy_ found him!"

"_'I knew what it was and what it meant straight away,' Weasley was quoted as saying,_" read Hermione, picking up where Ron had left off. "_'But I couldn't leave without trying to help Mr. Fudge.'_"

"I don't know whether that was brave or stupid," Ron said.

"Sometimes they go hand-in-hand," Harry said.

"Well, we always wondered how Percy ended up in Gryffindor," Ginny said. "I wouldn't have wanted to run in there. For all he knew, the killer could still have been inside."

"_Fudge, a widower, was found in his study,_" Hermione read. "_Aurors and Healers who arrived in response to Mr. Weasley's summons confirmed that the cause of death was the Killing Curse._"

Harry, without realizing it, rubbed his scar again.

"_All evidence seems to indicate,_" Ron read, "_that this heinous act was the work of Death-Eaters, loyal followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and that the Minister was the first overt casualty in this new resurgence of an old war. For a complete list of known Death-Eaters, their status and their crimes, see page 5._"

"First?" sputtered Harry. "What about Sirius? What about Cedric? What about Bertha Jorkins, and that man Bode, and --"

"Harry, you know they're not likely to bring all that up again," Hermione said. "Especially Sirius. It's one thing to admit that Voldemort's back --"

"No, d'you reckon? After he shows his bloody face in the heart of the bloody Ministry itself!" Harry shouted.

She went on, undeterred. "But it's something else entirely to bring up the fact that they had an innocent man imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years and on the run for two more. People are having a hard enough time trusting the Ministry as it is, without reminding them of all those other blunders."

"Oy! Ron! Heads up!" Dennis Creevey called from the far end of the Gryffindor table.

Another owl, this one dusty grey, was not so much flying or even gliding as it was falling down toward them. Its wings beat feebly at the air, shedding feathers, and if Ron hadn't sprung up and caught Errol, the Weasley family owl would have plowed beak-first into a pile of toast. An envelope fell from his relaxing talons, and Ginny rescued it before it fell into the butter dish.

"The poor thing!" Lavender said. "How cruel... why don't you let him retire?"

Ron flushed and mumbled.

"It's from Mum and Dad," Ginny said, hastily scanning the letter. "Wanting us to know that they've heard from Percy and he's all right, and Mum is going to St. Mungo's this morning to visit him."

"St. Mungo's?" Ron frowned. "Was he hurt?"

Hermione turned to the next page. "Ooh... _After informing the Aurors what he had found and directing them to the location of the body, Mr. Weasley collapsed in what witnesses called 'a nervous seizure,' which was unfortunately mistaken for some kind of hostile possession or control by Auror Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody_..._ whose instinctive reaction was to incapacitate Mr. Weasley until such time as he was deemed free of all Dark influences. _Poor Percy!"

"Poor Percy, nothing," Ron said with savage glee. "He deserves it after what a prat he's been. You know, he never did apologize to Mum and Dad for any of it, couldn't bear to admit that he'd been wrong and the rest of us had been right. I hope Fred and George have seen this. Wonder what Moody hit him with?"

"Knowing Moody ..." Harry said, and whistled. "I'm with Hermione. Poor Percy!"

"Remember that time he Transfigured Malfoy into a ferret?"

"You never let us forget," Hermione said. "You mention it at least three times a month."

Professor McGonagall rapped her wand on the edge of the podium at the front of the Great Hall. "If I might have your attention, please?" she called in a sharp, stern voice.

All around the breakfast tables, conversation died away. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat and the giant image of the front page disappeared. Harry saw Snape, looking more than usually grim, and Gwenna with an expression of mild, polite grief fitting for the occasion of the death of a man she did not know.

"In light of this terrible, terrible event," McGonagall said when the room was silent, "today's classes have been canceled. Your Heads of House and all other instructors will make themselves available should you need to discuss what has happened. But I will tell you right now that at the moment, we have no more information than you. When the headmaster returns from London, we'll know more."

She dismissed them all from breakfast, but no one was in a hurry to leave. Even the teachers remained, milling about the table, asking each other questions to which none of them had the answers. Everyone was talking about Fudge, talking about Percy, speculating wildly on which Death Eaters might have been responsible.

At some point, Harry glanced over to the Slytherin table and saw that several of them, especially Goyle and Malfoy, had made themselves scarce. And no wonder... the name of Lucius Malfoy had cropped up more than once in the animated debates flying from one end of the room to the other.

"I think I know what happened to Percy," Hermione said, bent over the paper. "You've got to read between the lines, but listen to this description of his symptoms. The sidebar says that in addition to various facial injuries, he was being treated for nervous exhaustion, emotional distress, and hypothermia."

"Hypo-whatsis?" Ron asked. "What's that?"

"Cold," Harry said, as an icy breath seemed to slip down the nape of his neck. "It means he got too cold. You're right, Hermione. It was dementors."

"Dementors got to him?" Ron no longer looked quite so excited by the prospect of Percy suffering. "I thought Moody --"

"Reckon that'd be the 'various facial injuries' they mention," Harry said. "So the dementors really are working with Voldemort. I wonder what's next? Giants? Goblins?"

Eventually, when everyone had hashed over every word of the paper and run out of new things to say, the students began dispersing. They had an unexpected day of freedom on their hands.

And to most of them, Fudge was a remote public figure with no real connection to Hogwarts. If he was thought of around the castle at all, it was as the man who'd approved all of Umbridge's decrees and painted Harry as a raving liar. Therefore, he was mourned only perfunctorily.

Because it was a calm and sunny day, Harry rounded up his team and they went out to practice at the Quidditch pitch. The sky was a flawless mellow blue, cloudless, marred only by regular flights of owls to and from the Owlery.

He, at least, was not so sanguine about the death of Cornelius Fudge. Harry had known Fudge. Hadn't much _liked_ him the last few times they'd met... had in fact downright _hated_ him on some of those occasions because it had been Fudge's stubbornness and unwillingness to listen that had contributed to the disastrous events of the previous spring.

Now Fudge had paid the ultimate price for his folly. Had died in a ruthless, horrible way. Who had done it? _Had_ it been Lucius Malfoy? Bellatrix Lestrange? Peter Pettigrew? Voldemort himself?

The Killing Curse was, Harry knew, quick and even relatively painless. Somehow, though, he didn't imagine that Fudge's end had been either of those. He had probably been tortured, made to suffer. The Death Eaters might have wanted information out of him-- just the thought of all they could have learned from interrogating the Minister of Magic made Harry's blood freeze.

And torturing people, making them suffer, was just something that they enjoyed. If it had been Bellatrix, Harry didn't doubt that Fudge had pleaded for death before it finally came.

Thankfully, Fudge hadn't had a family to be victimized with him. The paper said he was a widower, and Harry had never heard mention of there being any little Fudges.

It turned out to be an abysmal practice session. No one could concentrate, and not even the swift speeding rush of air as they zoomed around on their broomsticks could clear away the dark clouds of their thoughts. Harry called it to an end, and they trudged back up to the castle, sweaty and silent, in time for lunch.

Another owl had arrived, a St. Mungo's owl from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"_Dear Ron and Ginny,_" Ginny read, "_We're here with Percy and he is going to be just fine once his broken nose, jaw, and cheekbones heal._"

"Ouch," Harry said. "Moody must've kicked him in the face with his wooden leg."

"I hope they were able to feed him some chocolate with his jaw wired shut," Hermione said.

"Wired shut?" Ron scoffed. "Only if Augustus Pye wanted to test some more Muggle remedies, and you know Mum wouldn't have let him anywhere _near_ Percy, not after the stitches business with Dad last year."

"_I suppose you can figure out what else happened,_" Ginny read on. "_Percy is rather shaken up, but they say he'll recover._"

"That'll be the dementors," Harry said.

"_As you know, he's been having some problems dealing with the family lately._" Ginny curled her lips back in a snarl. "Problems dealing with the family? He broke their hearts, the git! Siding with the Ministry, and all the awful things he said!"

"Read the rest of it," Ron said.

Ginny looked like she might char holes in the paper with her burning eyes, but she resumed reading. "_We'll be staying on in London until Percy is released from hospital. Your father and I are hopeful that some good might come from this tragedy and bring us together again._"

Ron made a gagging noise. "If you ask me, they'd do better to wash their hands of him. But Mum's always had a soft spot for Percy. Percy the Prefect, Percy the Head Boy. She'll forgive him, wait and see."

"He's your brother," Hermione said. "And her son."

"We didn't want to say anything," Ginny said, biting her lip. "But Percy was petitioning to divorce the family and change his name."

"You're joking!" blurted Harry.

She shook her head. "He wanted nothing more to do with us, said that he was ashamed of being a Weasley."

"It's true," Ron said.

"That's awful!" Hermione gasped.

"That's Percy," Ron corrected. "He had some sort of a hearing coming up next month at the Ministry so he could plead his case."

"Can you really divorce your entire family?" Harry asked, interested. "I mean, could I divorce the Dursleys?"

"You'd have to be of age," Ginny said.

"Sirius cut off all ties with his," Harry mused. "He told me so. Spent all his time with my dad's family. I could --"

"Harry," Hermione began in that _but Dumbledore said_ tone.

"I know, I know. Back with the Dursleys at least once a year."

There was no new word by suppertime, and McGonagall announced that Friday's schedule would carry on as normal. Since everyone had been up most of the night already, they were all exhausted by the time they dragged themselves, replete with a large and weighty meal of shepherd's pie, up to their rooms.

But once he was in bed, and the others were beginning to snore, Harry found that he couldn't get to sleep. He lay wakeful in the darkness, crystalline stars peeking in through the high, arched window beside his bed.

Something had been bothering him all day, and now he understood. Fudge was dead. That was a big victory for Voldemort and his followers. And yet, Harry had felt nothing. His scar was slightly sore, but only because he had been habitually rubbing it all day, thinking about _Avada Kedavra_ and the flash of green light that must have engulfed Fudge's final split second of vision.

He hadn't sensed anything from Voldemort in ages. He should have been glad of it, because it was horrible being linked to his worst enemy that way. Yet he'd grown dependent on it. Not only was he, Harry, Dumbledore's Voldemort alarm, he was his own Voldemort alarm.

A few months ago, he would have sensed Voldemort's emotion, a powerful pulse of triumph at the death of the Minister of Magic. But there was nothing.

Rationally, he should have expected it. Voldemort had realized what was going on, had used their uncanny bond to funnel Harry false information about Sirius and lead him into the fatal trap in the Department of Mysteries. The entire reason for the agonizing Occlumency lessons had been to prevent that sort of thing, to close down the two-way gate and make sure Voldemort couldn't learn things from Harry the way that Harry had been learning them from Voldemort.

Since Harry had been a hopeless failure at Occlumency, he could only presume that it was Voldemort who had now closed that gate. No longer wanting Harry to be able to read anything of his mood or intentions.

While it had been happening, Harry had hated it. The feeling of violation, the dirty taint of knowing that he was entwined, mind and soul, with the most evil wizard since the days of Salazar Slytherin... and the worst of it was that even as he hated it, he'd grown to need that contact. The enticing lure of that dark hallway... the tantalizing hint of being close, _so_ close...

But now there was nothing. It was as if the link between them had never existed.

Restless, he got up and went to the window. He leaned his forehead on the thick diamond-shaped panes, gazing down at the velvet-dark grounds and the satin shimmer of the lake.

He was out there, somewhere. Voldemort. Moving carefully. Gathering power. Initially, Harry had expected him to go wild when he was restored. He'd expected a rash of brutal murders. Instead, there was this caution. Surgical strikes. A sense of setting all of the pieces in place. It was like a game of wizard chess, a tense and nervy game.

Finally, weariness overcame Harry and he returned to his bed. His sleep was light and uneasy. None of the others looked as if they'd slept well, either.

"Wish they'd cancel classes again today," Ron said as they shuffled groggily into the common room and out through the portrait hole.

Harry shrugged. He was more interested in the morning paper, and whether or not there would be any more news.

"Professor McGonagall said things would go back to normal," Hermione said. "I feel so bad for the fifth-years. All of this going on while they're trying to study for their O.W.L.s --"

"Oh, right, like we had such an easy time of it," Harry said.

She flushed. "Well, we got through all right."

"Skin of our teeth, you mean," Ron said.

Dumbledore was still absent from the staff table as the students filed in to take their places. McGonagall was standing at the podium, looking unhappy. At the sight of her, voices trailed off and everyone took their accustomed places with none of the usual chatter.

"Good morning," she addressed them. "I have some news that I wanted to deliver to you before the _Daily Prophet_ arrived. I heard from Professor Dumbledore early this morning."

"Do they know who did it?" cried a voice from the Ravenclaw table.

"Quiet, please," McGonagall said, tugging her square spectacles down her nose to peer over them for the offender. Her mouth was a compressed line. "As of this time, no, the identity of the Minister's killer remains unknown."

Harry shot a look over at the Slytherin table, but none of them seemed to be hiding smug grins to suggest that they knew anything.

"Late last night," McGonagall continued, "at an emergency meeting of the Wizengamot, a temporary Minister was elected by unanimous acclaim."

"Uh-oh," Hermione murmured.

"What?" Ron asked, turning toward her.

"The new acting Minister of Magic," McGonagall said, "is our own Professor Dumbledore."

"That," Hermione said over the babble and uproar of reaction. "I guessed they might want him to fill in. I'm surprised that he agreed, though."

"I thought Dumbledore didn't want to be Minister of Magic," Ron said.

"Better him than Umbridge," Harry said.

"Better _anybody_ than Umbridge, that's not the point," Ron said.

"If I might finish?" inquired Professor McGonagall, and once again the room quieted. "While the headmaster is away, I will once more be serving in his stead as Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts. A formal election for --"

"This is bad," Hermione whispered. "I don't like it."

"What's the matter?" asked Harry.

"Having Dumbledore gone. I understand why the Wizengamot did it... with Voldemort on the loose-- honestly, Ron! You've got to get over it!"

"Voldemort," Neville said clearly, leaning over.

Ron elbowed him. "Shut up, Neville."

"What I was saying," Hermione said, "was that Dumbledore is still the only one Voldemort fears, and so with him as Minister, Voldemort won't dare act against him. Plus, probably, no one else would take the spot, for fear they'd be next."

"It is turning out to be just like the Defense Against the Dark Arts job," Dean said. "But isn't it a good thing Dumbledore's in charge? Why don't you like it?"

"Because, Dean, it means that Dumbledore isn't _here_," Hermione said. "He'll be away in London dealing with Ministry business, so he won't be here at Hogwarts. Without him, Hogwarts is vulnerable. Remember what happened last year when he left?"

"What, so we need Dumbledore to protect us?" Seamus asked. "Isn't the entire Ministry and the wizarding world a wee bit more important than the few hundred of us here? Besides, we can do without him for a while, can't we? It's not like we're in any danger here. Hogwarts is the safest place there is, safer even than Gringotts."

"People keep saying that," Harry said. "It's funny, really. I've had more people try to kill me here at Hogwarts than anywhere else combined."

"Well, you're a special case, aren't you, Harry?" Seamus said with a grin.

"Thanks."

"I just don't like it," Hermione said. "I can't help wondering if the Minister was murdered just so this would happen."

"What are you saying, Hermione?" Ron asked. "That the Death Eaters killed Fudge because they knew Dumbledore would have to take over? And that would get Dumbledore away from Hogwarts? So that... what? They could bust in here and kill Harry?"

"Oh, come on," Harry said. "You're giving me way too much importance. I told you yesterday that Fudge had started taking action about the Death Eaters. They had to have more reason to kill him than just to make it easier to get at me."

Still, Hermione's logic made him uneasy. Hermione's logic usually did.

Ron suddenly snickered, and they all looked at him. He stifled it. "Sorry. I was just thinking about Percy."

"How are broken facial bones, hypothermia and nervous exhaustion funny?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Not that. But when Percy had his big row with Dad, it was over how Dad was aligning himself with Dumbledore instead of the Ministry. Now Dumbledore's leading the Ministry, and when Percy gets out of St. Mungo's and goes back to his job-- as Undersecretary to the _Minister_-- he'll be working right for Dumbledore."

"Knowing Percy," Ginny said sourly, "he'll blame Dumbledore for Fudge's death, and say that Dumbledore set the whole thing up so that he could take over. Which, according to Fudge, was what Dumbledore's always wanted."

"There's no point debating it now," Harry said. "Percy will have to cope or quit. Those are his only choices."

"Yeah, but I'd still like to be there when he hears the news," Ron said. "He'd get that look, you know the one, Ginny, like he bit into what he thought was a sugarplum and it turned out to be a lemon."

In a rustle-flap of wings, the flight of owls arrived with the morning post. Hands reached up eagerly to catch copies of the _Daily Prophet_, as well as numerous letters from home.

This time, Dumbledore's photograph dominated the front page, and his accession to the post of Acting Minister of Magic was the headline. In the photo, Dumbledore looked pensive and troubled. He was shown standing in front of the robed ranks of the Wizengamot, the High Council of the wizarding world. Harry recognized Susan Bones' aunt, Amelia, among them.

The other, smaller headlines caught his eye. UNDERSECRETARY WEASLEY MAKING SPEEDY RECOVERY, read one. FUDGE'S PRIVATE FUNERAL TO BE HELD WEDNESDAY, read another.

No one had much luck paying attention in classes that day. No one except, as usual, Hermione. Harry and Neville joined the other sixth-years headed down to the dungeon for Potions class after Charms, and the palpable chill coming from the Slytherins cast a pall over the rest of them. They took their appointed places at the cauldrons and waited.

Snape came in with a dark billow of cloak. "Mortars and pestles all around, Mr. Malfoy," he said as he strode down the aisle toward the locked cupboard where he kept his rarest, most expensive, and most dangerous ingredients. "We'll be grinding green opals and manticore teeth today."

Malfoy moved to obey, fetching sets of the utensils and passing them out to each pupil.

"Was it your father, Malfoy?" whispered Neville in a hiss as Malfoy approached the table where he and Harry sat perched on high stools. "Did he kill the Minister?"

The heavy marble mortar slammed down on the granite tabletop with a hard crash. The mortar split in two and rocked there on its rounded sides. The pestle rolled free and Harry, with the quick grab of a Seeker, caught it before it could go off the edge and shatter on the dungeon floor.

The sharp, loud noise echoed through the chamber. Slowly, a box of manticore teeth in hand, Snape turned. His eyes narrowed above his prominent, oily nose.

"Problem, Potter?"

"No, sir," Harry said evenly. "Malfoy dropped one, that's all."

Malfoy's jaw clenched. His pale eyes bored like steel drills into Neville's, but Neville didn't blink.

With a wave of his wand, Snape repaired the broken mortar. "Let's get started," he said. "The green opals must be ground to an exceedingly fine powder, so take care that you do not inhale. Or sneeze."

"Well, did he?" asked Neville in a low murmur.

"Go to hell, Longbottom." Malfoy moved on, looking furious.

Harry nudged Neville. "As hard as it was getting into this class, do you want to get thrown out?"

They began working on their green opals. Opal being a soft stone, it crushed easily under the marble pestle. The trick was in not mashing it into paste. Snape circulated, passing out teeth as he went.

"Who can tell me the properties of manticore tooth?" Snape asked. "Miss Parkinson?"

Pansy Parkinson drew herself up, fluffed her hair importantly, and began to speak. "Manticore tooth is ivory-white in its natural state, but when crushed or ground it undergoes a chemical change and turns dark brown. It is primarily used in the brewing of Veritaserum and Reversion Potions. It --"

She was interrupted by a wet, gagging cough from Goyle. He hacked and spat up a wad of phlegm.

"Did you inhale the powdered opal, Mr. Goyle?" Snape asked, sounding irritated. "I did warn you --"

Goyle raised his head, and Snape cut off mid-sentence.

Pansy screamed.

Neville dropped the repaired mortar, breaking it again.

Harry could only stare in horror at what was happening to Goyle's face.

_**To be continued in Chapter Seventeen -- The Liquipurging Elixir ... coming Tuesday, January 4, 2005.**_

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	17. The Liquipurging Elixir

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Seventeen: The Liquipurging Elixir   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

As an experiment, I plan to post one chapter a week. Given that the story's nowhere near finished yet, this provides me the exhilirating and terrifying effect of writing without a net. Feedback is most welcome, so feel free to contact me at 

Previously: 

Chapter One -- Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two -- Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three -- Damsel in Distress Chapter Four -- Chaos and Complications Chapter Five -- Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six -- A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven -- Night of the Knife Chapter Eight -- The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine -- Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten -- Looking Glass Chapter Eleven -- Hot Water Chapter Twelve -- Sixth Year Surprises Chapter Thirteen -- Student Apprentice Chapter Fourteen -- Defense and Disquiet Chapter Fifteen -- Voices in the Silence Chapter Sixteen -- Ministry Requiem 

* * *

_(Author's note additional -- this is another gross chapter, so please be warned! It also contains some strong language.)_

For a moment, there in the dungeon level Potions classroom, nobody moved. They all stood stock-still, rooted to the spot. 

Goyle coughed again, a thick, gargling sound like he was choking on a throatful of oatmeal and pebbles. His face had gone the color of an underripe plum, red-purple and swollen. His mouth gaped wider than seemed humanly possible, revealing every last one of his poorly-cared-for teeth. His eyes were squeezed into slits, watering. 

He hacked again, a dredging, swampy sound, and a grapefruit-sized stringy glob of yellow mucus splattered out of his mouth. Some of it struck Blaise Zabini, who leaped sideways with a high, revolted cry. 

That broke the room-wide paralysis, and everyone was scrambling over stools and around tables to get further away from Goyle. In the panic, several mortars went over, spilling opals and kicking up puffs of iridescent greenish dust. Harry wasn't the only one to hold his breath in hopes of avoiding inhaling the dust, and Neville went a step better by burying his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow. 

"Hhhaaahhrrch!" Goyle hacked again, then sucked in a thin, whistling breath. He clung to the edge of his table as a violent coughing fit wracked his body. 

"What's the matter with him?" Pansy shrieked. 

Snape pushed toward Goyle, slowed by the press of bodies trying to go in the opposite direction. 

Goyle convulsed, bending double. He heaved. A horrible retching noise was followed by a chunky gush of partially-digested breakfast. It splashed across the table and streamed over the edges. More people screamed, Neville among them. 

" hhhelp!" gasped Goyle, looking pleadingly up at Snape with vomit dripping from his chin. "My  stomaaaaachhh!" 

He threw up again, a tidal wave of it. This time the vomit was loose and watery, with no recognizable food bits. Snape's face twisted alarmingly and he sidestepped the torrent, sweeping the hem of his robes up and away. 

"Opal dust does _this_?" someone cried. 

Goyle tottered three steps toward Snape, now trying to cover his mouth with one hand while the other clutched at his gut. Pressure jets of liquid shot between his fingers. His hand wasn't big enough to cover his grossly distended mouth. His eyes bulged in pain and horror. 

"This is not the effect of breathing opal dust," Snape said after waving his wand at Goyle in a frantic, futile gesture. 

Harry thought of the Puking Pastilles, one of the specialties of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. But this far exceeded anything he'd seen from Fred and George. This was no harmless regurgitation to get out of a boring class. Goyle had emptied the contents of his stomach and was _still_ throwing up. Not dry-heaving, either  bile and less identifiable fluids were being expelled with each strangled, gagging seizure. 

"Zabini!" barked Snape. "Go get Madame Pomfrey. On the double! Malfoy, a Antitoxicus Draught, in the left hand cupboard, quick!" 

"Antitoxicus?" Pansy echoed. "He's been _poisoned_?" 

Blaise ran for the door and Malfoy for the cupboard. Snape tried to get close to Goyle, but as he reached out, Goyle reeled back the other way, stumbled over a fallen stool, went to his hands and knees, and sprayed another gout. It was hot and dark and streaked with arterial red. He was vomiting blood, tearing his insides apart with the shredding force of his internal convulsions. 

"_Now_, Malfoy!" shouted Snape. 

Malfoy yanked open the left hand cupboard and raked through neat rows of potion bottles on the shelves. They tumbled out, shattering on the floor around his feet in seething clouds and tendrils of multi-colored smoke. 

Goyle thumped down on his side, curled partway into a fetal position. More red-streaked fluid, seemingly gallons of it, surged from his canyonesque mouth. It drenched Snape as Snape bent over him. 

Hannah Abbott and Pansy Parkinson fainted. Neville swayed on his feet as if about to follow suit. Parvati's sister Padma whirled away and threw up into the nearest cauldron. So did Ernie Macmillan. Everyone else broke and fled, out the door that Blaise had left standing wide open. 

"Here!" Malfoy called, racing back with an Antitoxicus Draught grasped firmly in his hand. He gave it to Snape. 

Heedless of the blood and noxious mess soaking his robes, Snape bent over Goyle and uncorked the vial. But Goyle was still vomiting too severely, too constantly, for him to be able to pour the potion down his throat. Harry thought again of Fred and George, who'd had just such a problem with the Puking Pastilles. 

A truly impossible geyser erupted from Goyle. It shot five feet into the air and rained down in a pinkish-grey shower that stank like a slaughterhouse. 

Harry realized that Goyle was, in the most literal possible sense, puking his guts out. Somehow, his internal organs were liquefying, and he was vomiting them up, along with gallons of his own blood and bodily fluids. 

He remembered having once heard somewhere  from Hermione, more than likely  that the human body was more than eighty percent water. And Goyle was expelling every ounce of it. His limbs and torso looked shrunken, shriveled, as if he was being dehydrated before their very eyes. 

With his features contorted and his mouth stretched so wide that it took up his entire face, Goyle hardly looked human. He looked instead like one of the gargoyles on the outer wall, the water-spewing gargoyles that served as decorative spouts at the ends of the long pipes and rain gutters. 

Snape flicked his wand. "_Immobilus_!" 

Goyle's convulsions stopped. He was rigid, on his back. Locked in an agonized pose with his mouth agape so far it seemed the tendons in his jaw must have snapped. His eyes were stark with panic. And still, from deep inside him, came sloshing, churning noises. Goyle's innards sounded like an over-sudsed washing machine. 

His mouth brimmed, and overflowed at the corners. Snape cursed vehemently, unable to pour the potion in when it would merely run right out. He braced his foot on Goyle's shoulder and pushed him over onto his side. 

The liquid in Goyle's mouth ran out, but did not empty. He kept flowing like a wellspring. Flowing and flowing. An awful awareness was in his eyes now. Breath bubbled in and out of his nostrils. His skin adhered tight to the bones of his arms and legs  but now it appeared that his bones were melting as well. He was dissolving, dissolving from the inside out and vomiting up the entire substance of his body into a spreading lake on the floor. 

Snape knelt, grabbed Goyle's chin, and did his best to pour the Antitoxicus Draught in past the outflowing current. He cursed again, using oaths so vile that Harry's ears popped, and dumped the rest of the vial over Goyle's face as if thinking that it might perhaps be absorbed into his desiccated flesh. 

"Help him!" Malfoy howled. "You have to help him!" 

"I'm trying," said Snape through gritted teeth. 

Ernie and Padma stumbled from the room, Padma weeping and Ernie screaming like a little girl. Hannah, Pansy, and Neville lay in a heap  Harry wasn't sure exactly when Neville had fainted. Everyone else was long gone. 

"What can we do?" Harry asked desperately. He couldn't stand seeing anyone die like this. Not even Goyle. 

Snape only shook his head in a fevered desperation of his own. 

Malfoy seized Goyle by the shoulders and leaned over him. "Greg!" he yelled down into Goyle's gape-jawed, distended face. "Hang on! Madame Pomfrey's coming. You'll be all right " 

Goyle had been staring straight up at Malfoy, eyes rolling like those of a hog on its way to the butcher's pen. All at once, they wrinkled up into dry little eyeball raisins and fell back into their sockets with twin plopping noises. 

"Eeeyah!" Malfoy let go and sprang away, colliding with Harry. For a singularly bizarre instant, they clung to each other, their hateful enmity forgotten in the extremity of the horrible moment. 

"No, damn it, no!" Snape roared. 

He swept Goyle up in his arms  a feat that, had Goyle been his usual beefy self, Snape never could have hoped to have done  a feat that was ridiculously easy now that Goyle weighed as much as a bundle of broom twigs  as if he intended to Apparate with him straight to the hospital wing. But how many times over the years had Hermione reminded Harry that it was impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within the Hogwarts grounds? 

Every bit of moisture left in Goyle came out of him in a final gargling mist. What Snape was left with was a jointed bone-doll encased in leathery flesh and sodden robes. 

A shuddering moan escaped Malfoy. "Is  is he " 

"Dead," Snape said, and set the remains on a table with a surprising degree of gentleness. He bowed his head over them, his lank hair falling in clumps around his jawline. 

"Dead?" Malfoy repeated, like he'd never heard the word before. Then he shook himself, noticed that he was all but leaning on Harry, and jerked away with a furious, wordless outburst. 

"What happened to him?" Harry asked. "What kind of poison would do something like that?" 

A thunder of footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Blaise Zabini and Madame Pomfrey. The school nurse took one look at the hideous mess in the dungeon room and went almost as white as her uniform robes. Blaise was panting, red-faced from the exertion of running all the way to the hospital wing and back. 

"Oh, my stars," Madame Pomfrey said. 

Snape recovered his wits. "Malfoy, Zabini, Potter," he said sharply, and pointed at the pile of bodies. "Get them out of here and shut the door, or we'll have the whole castle down here rubbernecking." 

"Yes, sir," Harry said. He turned to the others. "I'll take Neville. Can you get Pansy and Hannah?" 

Malfoy was still staring at what was left of Goyle. He looked completely lost, vulnerable, and alone. Harry's heart almost went out to him. Once again, he was astounded to find himself feeling sorry for Draco Malfoy. 

"We'll get them," Blaise said, and snapped fingers in front of Malfoy's face. "Draco. Wake up, Draco." 

"He's dead," Malfoy said. 

"Yeah." 

"They're both dead." 

"Yeah," Blaise said again. "Get Pansy. I want out of here." 

Harry used his wand to levitate Neville, eerily reminded of a time that Lupin had levitated an unconscious Snape. Neville bobbed upright, arms dangling, head lolling. 

Over by the table, Madame Pomfrey was bent over Goyle. "I've never seen the like," she said to Snape. "What could have done this?" 

"It must have been a Liquipurging Elixir," Snape said grimly. "I cannot think of anything else that would have such an effect." 

"Liquipurging Elixir! Surely you do not keep that kind of poison _here_!" 

"I do not," Snape said. "It is an illegal potion." 

She pursed her lips as if to say that she knew full well Snape had a stockpile of illegal potions hidden about the dungeon. "Well, where did it come from?" 

"We do not even know for certain that this is its work," he said. "But the only place I've ever seen it was in a shop in Knockturn Alley." 

She gave him a disapproving look, which Snape ignored. 

"I tried an Antitoxicus Draught," he went on, "but was unable to get him to ingest it. By then, it might have been too late anyway." 

Blaise levitated Hannah, but as Malfoy was about to do the same with Pansy, it all caught up with him. His knees buckled, he groaned, and before either Harry or Blaise could catch him, he pitched face-down over Pansy in a dead faint. 

"Bugger," Blaise said, looking at Harry. 

It struck him that even here, close up and conversing, he couldn't tell if Blaise was a boy or a girl. A slim boy  or a flatchested girl  the voice perfectly middle-range. 

"I'll get him," Harry said. Still with Neville floating like a balloon at the end of his wand, he hefted Malfoy up over his shoulder. 

"Good job." Blaise nodded, and did the same with Pansy floating, and Hannah Abbott, who was considerably slighter than the full-figured Slytherin girl, in a fireman's carry. 

They made their way slowly and clumsily through the disordered Potions classroom, mindful not to trip over stools or slip in the unthinkable liquid coursing in the cracks between the large flagstones. 

No one was in the hall yet, and Harry supposed that was a good thing, though he and Blaise probably would have appreciated a little extra help with their burdens. He wondered where everyone else had gone when they'd fled the classroom, and why word hadn't gotten around. 

"We'll go to our dormitory first," puffed Blaise. "It's nearest." 

"Suits me," Harry said. Malfoy was heavier than he looked. 

He had been to the Slytherin common room once before, but tried not to give any indication of that as he followed Blaise along the dungeon corridors. Inside, the sunken stone-walled chamber was lit by a multitude of green snake-shaped candles, their tongues made of flickering flame. The fireplace was stacked with wood but unlit, and shadows lurked in the high corners like dark spiderwebs. 

No Slytherins were present, but their pets were. A black cat lounged insolently on a dragonleather sofa, coldly watching them with luminous yellow eyes. An albino cobra flared its hood and hissed a warning. A one-eyed owl shifted on its perch and gave a desultory hoot. A two-headed newt with sickly-looking grey spots scurried under a table as they came in. 

Harry flopped Malfoy down on the sofa. His arm swung down, limp, knuckles brushing the nap of a tapestry rug showing basilisks and cockatrices hatching from eggs. 

Blaise deposited Pansy in a deep chair, and lowered Hannah. "I need to rest for a minute." 

"Sounds good to me," Harry said, sitting on a footstool and lowering Neville so that he no longer continued to bob, insensate, in the air. 

"Strange, seeing you in here." 

"I know what you mean." 

They looked at each other for a long, thoughtful moment. 

"Blaise?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Are you a boy or a girl?" It just, heaven help him, slipped out. 

"Yes," Blaise said, and grinned diabolically. 

"Yes? What kind of answer is that?" 

"A true one." 

"Well  okay, but " 

Just then, Malfoy revived with a thrashing shout that sent him spilling to the rug. "Huh! Ah! Son of a " He glanced around, befuddled, and then the surroundings clicked and he sat back, combing his fingers through his tangled pale blond hair. His gaze found Harry, and narrowed into twin piercing points. "You!" 

"I think he's all right," Harry said dryly. 

"Seems so," Blaise said. 

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy demanded. 

"Carried you," Harry said, resisting the urge to rub salt in the wound. Here was his chance for payback, his chance to get back at Malfoy for all of those humorous impressions he'd done of Harry fainting in terror at the sight of a dementor. Yet somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not with Goyle's death still fresh in their minds. 

"The hell you did," Malfoy said angrily, sitting up. His gaze took in Pansy first, and then Hannah and Neville. For a moment, he seemed at a loss, and then recollection crashed in on him. Pain wrenched his face into a grimace. 

"Greg ?" he asked Blaise in a faltering tone. "He isn't  not really ?" 

"Sorry, Draco." 

Without another word, Malfoy shot to his feet, robes whirling around his legs. He headed for an arched doorway framed in nestles of stone serpents like the hair of Medusa, swept aside a curtain of dark green snakeskin patterned cloth, and entered a curving hallway. Blaise followed, and after a moment's indecision, Harry did too. 

He saw at once that the Slytherins had quite different sleeping arrangements from those in Gryffindor tower. The long hall curved in a semi-circle and was lined with oaken doors. Torches in wrought-iron wall sconces shaped like gauntleted fists held torches that ignited with magical flames when anyone came near. In the center of each door was a silver and malachite shield-shape emblazoned with the Slytherin crest, and above each such crest was a plaque with a name upon it. Bulstrode, Flint, Stormdark, Zabini, others. One read Kirkallen, and Harry felt a not unpleasant tingle at the sight of it. 

"You have individual rooms?" he asked. 

"Don't you?" Blaise replied with a sly grin. 

Malfoy stopped in front of a door with Goyle's name on it. Harry thought that it must be locked  if they needed separate rooms, they probably also locked them  but it opened readily enough. Malfoy went in. Blaise and Harry advanced to the threshold. 

Goyle's room was a pigsty. Clothing everywhere, school books piled indifferently in a corner, half-eaten sandwiches on the shelf above the unmade bed, sweets wrappers all over the floor. A poster of a succubus hung on one wall and a veela-of-the-month calendar on another. 

The desktop was almost bare. By the look, most everything that _had_ been on it  empty butterbeer bottles, crumpled homework assignments, bent quills, ink pots, a copy of the _Quidditch Illustrated_ swimsuit edition, a bag of toffees  had been shoved onto the floor. 

Only four items remained. Malfoy stood looking down at them, fists curled at his sides. His back blocked the view of whatever was left on Goyle's desk. 

"What is it?" Blaise asked, venturing in. 

When Blaise reached Malfoy, Malfoy stepped aside and Harry could see the desk. Could see what was on the desk. A wrinkled bit of parchment  from the door, he recognized Goyle's large, clumsy printing but couldn't read the words  and a dark brown glass vial, uncorked and empty. 

"No," Malfoy said. "No. I refuse to believe it. He wouldn't." 

"Read what it says," Blaise said, picking up the paper. 

"He _wouldn't_!" Malfoy's voice rose. 

"It's a suicide note, Draco." 

"It can't be." 

Harry was jolted to the core. "A suicide note?" 

Malfoy spun. "Get out of here, Potter! You're not supposed to be here!" 

"He killed himself? He did  he did _that_ to _himself_?" 

"_I can't take it anymore,_" Blaise read. "_Sorry. Tell my mum goodbye._" 

"He did _not_ kill himself!" Malfoy yelled. "It's a mistake! A trick! A forgery!" 

"You've seen his handwriting as much as I have," Blaise said, tipping the parchment toward Malfoy. 

"I don't care! It's a lie!" 

"You have to show that to Snape," Harry said. 

"Don't you tell us what we do or don't have to do, Potter!" 

"He's right, though " 

"Shut up, Blaise!" Malfoy breathed rapidly through his nose, his pale eyes bright, his normal pallor awash with emotion. "It wasn't suicide. It was murder!" 

"Look at this bottle," Blaise said. "It's from Deadly Doses in Knockturn Alley; I'm familiar with the label. And, see? Liquipurging Elixir Capsules. They're coated, so they're slow-acting. He could have taken them this morning, and when the coating dissolved " 

"I'm telling you, he didn't!" Malfoy looked ready to punch Blaise. 

"Be reasonable, Draco." 

"_You_ be reasonable! Who'd kill themselves like that? It was a _fucking_ horror show, Blaise!" 

Harry blinked a little. 

"Draco " Blaise said. 

"And you saw him," Malfoy ranted on. "You saw how shocked he was, how surprised! How much it _hurt_! He didn't do that to himself. No way in hell. No way in _hell_ he did that to himself." 

"So, what are you saying?" Blaise pointed at the parchment, then at the bottle. "Someone came into his room and forced him to write a suicide note, then gulp down a dozen Liquipurging capsules? How? The Imperius Curse?" 

"It must have been," Malfoy said. 

"And then what? Greg just walks out of here and doesn't tell anyone? Doesn't mention it?" 

"Well " 

"Imperius Curse and then a Memory Charm, you think?" Blaise pressed. 

"Could have been!" But Malfoy's expression showed that even he thought that this was getting far-fetched. 

"It would have had to've been one of us, too," Blaise said. "Seen as how it happened right here in our dormitory. Why would any of us want to kill Greg?" 

"None of _us_ would " Malfoy trailed off and turned to give Harry a long, cold, speculative look. 

"You think I did it?" Harry returned the look. 

"It's all a little too convenient, isn't it?" Malfoy purred, his earlier hysteria a thing of the past. "Three Slytherins, three sons of Death Eaters, three murders. And who's right on the scene every single time? None other than Harry Potter." 

"Oh, now, hey," Blaise protested. "Are you saying they were _all_ killed? Ted and Vince, too?" 

"What do _you_ say, Potter?" 

"I say you're a nutter, Malfoy," Harry said. "I'm no murderer, and you know it." 

"What I know is that you hate us," Malfoy said. "Sending our fathers to Azkaban wasn't good enough, was it? Especially not once they got out and took care of Sirius Black. You want revenge, but you can't get at them so you come after us. Vengeful _and_ cowardly  fine traits for a high-and-mighty Gryffindor!" 

"I _did_ almost end up in Slytherin with you," Harry said, anger displacing what sympathy he had been feeling for Malfoy. "But that's beside the point. I've never killed anyone. You're out of your mind if you believe that." 

"It's easier to believe that than to believe all three of them committed suicide within a few weeks of each other," Malfoy said. "Two of them on the same damn day!" 

"Actually, it isn't that unheard-of," Blaise said. "There's something called a suicide contagion. Usually applies to teenage girls, but " 

"Shut _up_, Blaise!" 

Harry lowered his head for a moment and took a slow, deep breath. He looked back up at Malfoy. "Listen, I'm sorry about your friends. Sure, we've had a history, we don't have any reason to get along. But I wouldn't kill them, and I _didn't_ kill them." 

Malfoy scoffed. "You'd like me to think so, wouldn't you? But I know better than that, Potter. I know what's really going on here. You won't get away with it. Next time " 

"By that reasoning," Blaise cut in, "you'd be next, eh, Draco?" 

"What?" choked Malfoy. 

"If Potter _is_ behind it. You're the only son of a Death Eater left here at Hogwarts. That puts you last on the list." 

"It  I  no, that's not so." 

"But it is," Blaise said. "Nigel's aunt was one, I think, and Devona's grandfather on her mom's side, and that first-year brat Edmund Hawke had a few in the family tree, but you're the only one who's got a close living-relation Death Eater." 

"Are you trying to be funny, Zabini?" 

"Just following your chain of logic." 

"I'm _not_ behind it," Harry said. "There's no 'it' to _be_ behind. They killed themselves. You can look for guilt and conspiracies as much as you like, but I'm telling you, nobody pushed Nott out that window with a rope around his neck. Nobody slashed Crabbe's wrists and left him to simmer. Nobody forced those capsules down Goyle's throat. Nobody but themselves." 

He knew, too, that he had to get out of here. Before long, more Slytherins would show up, having heard about what happened in the Potions classroom. Or Snape himself would put in an appearance, and coming face to face with Snape again was something Harry would just as soon avoid. Or Neville and Hannah would revive, and panic once they realized where they were. 

"Potter couldn't have done it," Blaise said. "How could he get into our dormitory?" 

"He's in here now." 

"I let him in." 

"Oh?" Malfoy inquired icily. "Do you make a habit of inviting Gryffindors into our private quarters?" 

"Don't be an ass," Blaise said. 

"I'm going," Harry said. "I'll take the others with me before they come around." 

"This isn't over," Malfoy said. He looked around Goyle's room, and his chin began to quiver. He was on the verge of tears. Then, as if the very idea of displaying even a hint of that weakness was unbearable, he turned away from Harry. He brought the heels of his hands down hard on Goyle's desk, making the brown glass bottle jump. "Get out of here, Potter." 

Harry retreated down the curving hall and emerged once more into the common room. Pansy Parkinson, who looked as unfortunately like a pug dog as ever, was still sprawled in the big chair. Neville was groaning like someone in the grips of a bad dream, and Hannah Abbott's big blue eyes fluttered open as Harry came in. Her blond brows drew together. 

"Harry? What  where ?" 

"Never mind," he said. "You'll be happier if you don't ask. Help me get Neville." 

Always obliging, the Hufflepuff girl got up and slung one of Neville's arms around her shoulders. Harry took the other. Between them, they half carried and half dragged Neville out. 

"Was that the Slytherin dorm?" Hannah asked in a small, timid voice, the voice of a cartoon mouse, once it was safely behind them. 

"Yeah." 

She shivered. "It was horrible. Like being in a nightmare. All those snakes!" 

"Are you okay?" 

"I think so. I " She faltered. "Oh, my God! Goyle! He " 

Harry nodded. 

"Is  is he all right?" 

"No. He's dead." 

Neville thumped to the hall floor as Hannah fainted again. Harry stood there over the pair of them, rubbing his temples and grumbling in exasperation. 

He was spared having to lug or levitate them again by the arrival of a whole crowd of people. Ernie Macmillan was leading the way, a trifle shamefaced at how he'd bolted from class. Millicent Bulstrode was among them, hulking like a troll in a wig. 

As the group rounded a corner and saw Harry, standing there with Neville and Hannah at his feet, they came to an alarmed halt. 

"They're only unconscious," Harry said. 

Just then, Snape and Madame Pomfrey appeared around another corner, from the direction of the Potions classroom. Snape had a long dragonhide-wrapped bundle in his arms and looked supremely annoyed to find an entire throng in his path. 

It all got quickly sorted out, with Ernie and a few other Hufflepuffs taking charge of Hannah and Ron elbowing his way through to help Harry with Neville. Everyone peppered Snape and Madame Pomfrey with questions, but when no clear answers were forthcoming, they started looking to Harry. 

Snape gave him the evil eye. It was like Occlumency lessons all over again  Harry could _feel_ Snape's mind boring into his. 

_Not a word, Potter, not one word. _

So he deflected the questions as best he could, and went upstairs. The entrance hall was full of students just finished with the morning's lessons, milling about talking or heading to their dormitories to drop off their books before lunch. Several other Gryffindors came running to Harry and Ron, exclaiming over Neville, wanting to know what had happened. So, too, did Cecily, the blonde-braided Ravenclaw seventh-year girl. 

"Had an accident in Potions," Harry said, not wanting to tell her that Neville had fainted. 

"Oh, poor Neville!" She leaned over him, brushed a lock of hair back from his brow, and kissed him on the cheek. 

Ron looked flabbergasted. Neville, meanwhile, stirred and opened his eyes, as if Cecily's kiss had been the spell-breaking key to a fairy tale. 

He stared at her, rather blank-eyed, for a few seconds. Then Neville grinned sheepishly. "Hi, Cecily." 

"Are you hurt?" she asked, still smoothing his hair out of his face. 

Over Neville's head, Ron mouthed his shock at Harry. Harry bit back a snicker. 

"No," Neville said, pulling away from Harry and Ron to smooth his robes. "I'm fine, really." 

"Thank goodness!" 

"Cecily?" 

"What, Neville?" 

"Would you go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?" 

Harry wouldn't have thought it possible for Ron's jaw to drop any further, but it did. All around them was a wall of identical disbelieving expressions. Was this Neville Longbottom? Blundering, goofy Neville? Asking out a girl in front of an entire crowd of people? And not just any girl, but an older girl, blonde and pretty? Harry would have bet a bagful of Galleons that Neville wouldn't have had that kind of nerve, not in a million years  but here he was, doing it. 

"I'd love to," Cecily said. And, with a dimpled smile, she held hands with Neville as they walked together into the Great Hall for lunch. 

To be continued in Chapter Eighteen -- Refuge from the Rain ... coming Friday, January 7, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	18. Refuge from the Rain

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Eighteen: Refuge from the Rain  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Goyle's death sent the school into a state of shock. Although Dumbledore had to stay away, dealing with the repercussions of Fudge's murder, he sent a few Ministry officials to investigate. _CSI: Hogwarts_, Dean Thomas called it, but Dean was the only one to get the joke and so it fell rather flat.

The proprietor of Deadly Doses, a wizard named Socrates Hemlock, admitted to carrying the Liquipurging Elixir, claiming that it was intended to be used as an emetic to induce vomiting in the event of accidental ingestion of poison. The correct dosage-- one capsule-- was clearly printed on the label, as was a warning that overdoses could be harmful or even fatal.

Hemlock did, however, deny selling the Elixir to Goyle.

"No underage wizards permitted in my shop," he was quoted as claiming. "I may live and work in Knockturn Alley, but I obey the law. I wouldn't go selling that kind of stuff to a kid. What do you take me for?"

The incident made the second page of the _Daily Prophet_, the first page still being taken up with Ministry news. When the investigators turned up several other controlled substances even more dangerous than the Liquipurging Elixir in Deadly Doses, and several other local shops were caught selling dragon eggs, fake Apparition licenses, Forging Quills and other illegal items, it caused a sensational crackdown on all of Knockturn Alley. Nine hags, warlocks, witches and wizards were arrested. Fourteen others were hit with hefty fines and lost their business licenses.

But in the end, the Ministry officials could only conclude that what happened to Goyle must have been suicide. No one hazarded a guess as to why he would have picked such a grotesque and painful method.

Malfoy's paranoia about some mysterious murderer stalking the relatives of Death Eaters made the rounds. By the end of the week, half the students in Slytherin House were going about in protective clusters, because even the ones who didn't have Death Eaters in their immediate families had them as distant cousins or in-laws or "my uncle's wife's sister's best friend was married to a Death Eater" connections. Most of these links were so tenuous as to be absurd, but there was no telling that to the Slytherins.

Three grisly deaths and Malfoy's certainty convinced them. They didn't want to believe that Nott, Crabbe and Goyle had been suicides. They'd much rather believe it was murder.

Harry noticed that the ones Blaise had named-- Nigel Nox, Devona Stormdark, and Edmund Hawke-- were the most nervous of all. Not counting Draco Malfoy himself, of course.

It was harder to feel sorry for Malfoy after the way he'd behaved, but Harry still did, at least a little. Now both of his cronies were gone, and even his nominal girlfriend Pansy Parkinson was keeping her distance.  
Professor McGonagall, as acting headmistress, did her best to keep the wildest rumors under control. All of the teachers were striving to maintain an air of normality around the school. But it was plain that they were shaken, too. All but Firenze, who viewed three dead students in the first few weeks of term with philosophical detachment.

"Saturn has been troubled lately," was the most he would say on the subject.

By the time the weekend rolled around, though, things seemed pretty much back to normal as far as Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were concerned. There was the first Hogsmeade trip to look forward to, and Sunday's Quidditch match, and...

"After all, they were only Slytherins anyway," Dennis said at dinner on Thursday evening. "So what's to fuss about?"

Hermione was appalled, and she wasn't the only one. Dennis took a severe drubbing for his insensitivity and crassness. To add insult to injury, McGonagall found out about it and took twenty points from Gryffindor for Dennis' remark.

But Harry had to privately admit that Dennis seemed to have put his finger on it. That was the very attitude most prevalent among the rest of the Houses. Only Slytherins anyway. What's to fuss about?

The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall was a low and ominous grey at breakfast on the first Saturday in October. Through even the thick stone walls, occasional rumbles of thunder could be heard. The dark clouds and spitting squalls of rain did not dim the spirits of the older students, especially not those of the third-years, who were going to Hogsmeade for the first time. Even some of the Slytherins perked up a bit.

"Well?" Hermione asked pointedly.

Ron, scooping scrambled eggs onto his plate, pretended he hadn't heard her.

Ginny grinned. "Who are you going with, Ron?"

"Huh?"

"To Hogsmeade," Hermione said. "It's today, you know."

"Yeah... so?"

"You've never been a good fibber, Ron," Ginny said. "Your ears always turn pink. You'd better never play poker."

"I don't know what you're talking about." His ears were so pink they almost glowed.

"The big date," Hermione said, with acid in her tone.

"Date?"

"Give it up, Ron," advised Seamus. "They're onto you."

"Oh!" Ron widened his eyes in a fake look of dawning comprehension. "That's _right_, I was going to ask someone to go to Hogsmeade with me! Wow. I totally forgot. Slipped my mind. Totally slipped my mind. Drat. And I was looking forward to it, too. Ah, well, next time. Today I guess I'll just hang around with Harry."

"Hey, leave me out of this," Harry said, holding up his hands.

"You are the worst liar I've ever heard," Hermione said.

"Who's lying?" He tried to look innocent and failed badly.

"Tsk, Ron." Ginny clucked her tongue. "Even Neville's got a date."

Neville, meanwhile, was oblivious to them as he kept making dreamy calf's eyes at Cecily over at the Ravenclaw table. Cecily, for her part, would blush and toy with her long blonde braid, and send little finger-waves his way. The girls seated around her, other Ravenclaw seventh-years including Cho Chang, kept exchanging glances and shaking their heads.

"I would ask someone," Ron blustered. "Only it's too late now, isn't it? Short notice. Girls hate being asked out at the last minute."

"How in the world would you know?" Hermione sniffed.

"He waited until the last minute to ask my sister to the Yule Ball," Parvati said.

"Actually," Lavender corrected cattily, "_Ron_ didn't ask your sister at all. Harry asked you, and Ron was the fine-print package deal poor Padma got roped into."

"Hey!" Ron said.

By now, it seemed, every girl at the Gryffindor table was enjoying Ron's torment. And most of the boys were just glad it was him instead of any of them. One girl alone was scary enough. When they banded together like this...

"Sorry, mate," Harry said, clapping him on the back. "Sacrifice yourself. Spare the rest of us."

"I don't see you having a date either," Ron said.

"I didn't shoot off my mouth and say I was going to get one."

"I forgot! Is that a crime?"

Hermione made a show of checking the time. "You've still got half an hour."

"Right, like I could ask someone now!"

"I did," Colin Creevey piped up. "Just ten minutes ago, I asked Philippa Prewett if she wanted to go into Hogsmeade with me, and she said yes."

Ron buried his head in his hands and moaned.

"Way to go, Colin," Seamus said. "She's that Hufflepuff with the b--" He started to raise his cupped hands to chest height, caught Ginny, Hermione, Lavender and Parvati all glaring daggers at him, and coughed. "With the... um... bbbeautiful eyes?"

"Nice try, Seamus," Lavender said, and threw a piece of toast at him.

"But you're still going with me, right?" he asked, trying on a winning smile.

"Unless someone better asks me in the next twenty-eight minutes."

"Oh, yeah?" Ron lifted his head and sat up straighter.

"Not in your wildest dreams, Ron Weasley!"

"I can't win," Ron muttered to Harry. "Whatever I do, I just can't win."

"Maybe this'll be a lesson to you," Hermione said tartly.

"Yeah, to never even think about asking girls out again. I'll never have a date, I'll never get married, and I'll grow old and die alone, a weird old man like Uncle Ecktor, talking to the little elves on my wallpaper."

"You're pathetic," she said.

"So I suppose that means _you_ won't go out with me either," Ron said, and then froze, looking like he could not believe the words had come out of his own mouth.

"Go out with you?" Hermione shrilled. "Not if my life depended on it!"

Ginny watched this with the avid fascination of someone at a really good Quidditch match.

"I didn't ask!" Ron shouted back.

"You certainly did!"

"It wasn't what I meant!"

"Oh? Then what _did_ you mean?"

"I didn't mean anything!"

"So you _don't_ want to go out with me?" Hermione asked dangerously.

Dean and Seamus both flinched, and even Neville was torn away from his rapt contemplation of the pretty Cecily.

"Goodbye, Ron," Harry whispered. "Been nice knowing you."

Ron underwent a series of facial tics and contortions. He resembled a man trying to swallow a doorknob. "Um... I ..."

"There's no safe answer," Seamus hissed. "Run for it. I'll knock over the coffee pot and buy you a bit of time."

"What's going on?" came a vague, misty voice. Luna Lovegood had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table, wearing a lemon-yellow rain slicker over her robes. It had a long screaming-red belt with a buckle the size of a tea saucer, embossed with the calligraphy-scrolled "Q" logo of _The Quibbler_. She also had earrings shaped like puffer fish dangling from her earlobes, in honor of the occasion.

"I think Ron's _not_ asking Hermione out," Colin said. "Even though he needs a date for Hogsmeade. I think that's it, but I'm kind of confused."

"Oh," Luna said. "That's all right. I'll go with him."

"What?!" Ron and Hermione cried in unison.

"I didn't have a date either," Luna said. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Actually, I've never had a date. This will be my first date. How nice!" And she smiled at Ron. "You're very sweet to ask."

"Help me!" Ron mouthed at Harry.

"You're on your own," Harry said, trying not to laugh and mostly succeeding.

Hermione sprang up and threw her napkin into her plate. "I'm going to go get my cloak," she said, and stomped out of the Great Hall.

Luna, utterly unconcerned, took Hermione's seat and propped her elbows on the table to lean toward Ron. "Where shall we go first?"

Half an hour later, bundled into their cloaks, hoods pulled up against the weather, a long line of figures descended the stone steps out of the castle and headed for Hogsmeade.

It was a startling day, the first storm of autumn coming after a clear and mellow September. The wind at ground level was moderately breezy, but judging by the way the highest boughs were whipping back and forth, and the way the black clouds skidded in tatters across a backdrop of heavy grey, Harry was glad he wasn't on a broom and hoped that it'd all blow itself out by tomorrow. In the distance, irregular stutter-flashes of lightning were moving steadily closer, accompanied by the rolling drumbeat of thunder.

He was a few paces behind Ron, who was taking extra-long strides as if thinking he could undo his accidental date with Luna simply by walking too fast for her to keep up. But Luna, who was probably used to people doing that even if she never quite understood that she was the reason for their rapid pace, trotted at his side. With his flaming red hair and her fluorescent yellow rain slicker, they were the brightest things in the gloom of the day.

Off to their left, Neville and Cecily walked very close together under an umbrella that Neville's grandmother must have sent to school with him. It was a dusty purple, with a fringe like an old lampshade and an ornately carved handle shaped like a duck, but Cecily didn't seem to mind at all.

Lightning arced across the turbulent sky, followed by a blast of thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the earth.

"If this keeps up," Ginny called from where she was walking arm-in-arm with Dean, "will they cancel the game?"

"Not likely," Harry said. "I've had to play in full-on blizzards."

"But have you ever been struck by lightning?"

"Me, personally?"

"Oh, great," she said.

Ahead, the houses and shops of Hogsmeade huddled against the storm. Black wreaths hung on the doors, swags draped the tops of the windows, and black ribbons wrapped some of the lampposts as tokens of mourning for Cornelius Fudge. Out on its lonely windswept hill above the rushing Hogsbrook, the ramshackle Shrieking Shack looked more haunted than ever.

The rain opened up in earnest just as they reached town, and everyone made a mad dash for the Three Broomsticks. The pub must have been doing a slow day of business, because Madame Rosmerta had been playing solitaire at the bar when they all charged in.

Harry lost track of his friends in the crush, and finally found himself at the brass rail edging the polished oak bar, elbow to elbow with Jane Kirkallen. Had she done that on purpose? He knew he hadn't. But their earlier discussion came back to him, and he smiled. This might well be the closest they'd ever get to a Hogsmeade date.

"Butterbeer, please," he told the suddenly-hectic-looking Madame Rosmerta. She filled a steaming mug and placed it in front of him.

"The same for me," Jane said, reaching into her purse.

"I've got it," Harry said, sliding a pile of silver Sickles across the bar.

Jane did the eyebrow thing. "Buying a drink for a Slytherin?"

"Nobody'll notice. It's a madhouse in here."

"Cheers, then," she said, and tipped the mug amiably in his direction before sipping at the frothy foam.

"Cheers." Harry took a hearty swig. The butterbeer was almost too hot to drink. It kindled in his stomach like an ember, sending waves of warmth all through him.

They only had a moment, before a couple of Hufflepuff boys pushed between them to order their own drinks. He nodded at her and moved on through the crush.

At a corner table, he saw Ron and Luna. Ron seemed to be attempting to drown himself in butterbeer, and Luna stirred absently at a mug of cocoa topped with a whirled mountain of whipped cream, into which a cherry was slowly sinking. Harry saw Ron's eye fall upon him, Ron's face light up with a sort of frantic desperation, and... though he wasn't proud of it... he turned away as if he hadn't noticed them, before Ron could call him over to join them.

He found a spot near a table where several people were hotly debating the latest scandal in the Quidditch world-- five members of the Manchester Meteors had been cited for using performance-enhancing elixirs-- and stood against the wall, drinking butterbeer and listening in.

A blast of thunder as loud as a cannon shot rattled the Three Broomsticks, making everyone jump. The windows were so rippling with rain that the street beyond was lost in a flowing silvery veil. People coming into the pub were drenched despite the use of various anti-rain spells, and the floor was tracked dark with mud from their feet and the dragging hems of robes.

Hermione entered, alone, and so wet and bristling with indignation that she looked much like her cat Crookshanks on the occasions when Crookshanks was forced to endure a bath. Harry sidled around behind a blocky Hufflepuff seventh-year Beater, not really wanting to make eye contact with her either. He peeked around the Hufflepuff's arm, though, waiting to see if--

Yes, there it was... Hermione's gaze found Ron and Luna. Harry swore that steam rose from her sodden hair, and sparks leapt from her eyes.

It was wrong of him to be amused by all of this. He would have been furious to think that Ron and Hermione, for instance, might have secretly chortled over his own ongoing unsuccessful efforts to strike up a relationship with Cho. Of course, they probably _had_, so he couldn't really feel all too bad about the grin that kept trying to cross his face.

Harry finished his butterbeer and decided to brave the elements. He thought longingly of the secret passage underneath Honeydukes, which was dark and musty but at least would be a dry way to get home. Without the trusty Marauder's Map, though, he didn't want to risk emerging and finding Filch or Snape standing there.

The streets of Hogsmeade were a mire of mud, the rain beating down. Harry pulled his hood up and hurried for the minimal shelter offered by a few of the shop roof overhangs. He made a few purchases-- never too early to start thinking ahead to Christmas-- and ended up in Honeydukes.

Invisible hands were pulling a fresh batch of pumpkin-flavored taffy in the window, the stretchy orange stuff folding in an intricate pattern. The rich smell of chocolate dominated a host of other pleasing aromas. Because Halloween was closing in, the shelves were full of sugar-crystal skulls, flapping licorice bats, gumdrop spiders, candy corn, and other treats. The new selection of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Beans was out, too... Muggle Industrials, they were called, and tasted like gasoline, pulp mill, factory floor, automotive exhaust, axle grease, and antifreeze.

The crowds were thinner by the time he finished making his selections, and he realized that many students had decided to cut their trips short. The storm was intensifying, the rain so hard now that it might have been pouring full-force from some colossal faucet and the sky black as midnight when it wasn't bursting brilliant purple-white with lightning.

He saw several people holding their robes up over their heads, running up the path toward Hogwarts with no concern for their dignity. Others wondered out loud if they shouldn't send owls up to the school, requesting that the carriages come down and pick them up.

But even if anyone was heartless enough to send an owl out in such weather, it'd probably be blown clear to Scotland on the wild wind, if it wasn't blown apart into a puff of smoldering feathers by a bolt of lightning. None came and went from the Post Owlery, probably grounded until the storm passed.

The puddles in the streets had merged into an expanding, lake. Waterfalls cascaded from the eaves. It was already almost evening, almost supper time. They would be late returning to school as it was.

A wizard in brown woolen robes that had soaked up so much water he was like a human sponge went by as Harry emerged from Honeydukes, shouting over the howling wind that Hogsbrook was already only two inches below the high-water mark of '87.

Harry thought again of the secret passage, with genuine regret. Filch and Snape had nothing to do with it; he couldn't justify using it himself while his schoolmates suffered.

About the only person he saw who didn't look unhappy at all was Neville Longbottom, who had taken refuge with Cecily under a large tree. The branches were so thick and tightly woven that there was a patch of almost dry ground beneath, and with the dusty purple umbrella held over them as well, Neville and Cecily looked quite cozy. She was snuggled up to him, too, with his arm around her and her face tipped adoringly toward his. And as Harry watched, they locked lips in a kiss that almost caught fire to the fringes on the edge of the umbrella.

Not sure whether he was impressed or envious or both, Harry shook his head and trudged on. He had his purchases tucked under his sweater, hood up, and the Impervius Charm on his face and glasses to prevent him being totally blind, but he still couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him. Other robed figures struggled by, splashing through mud, shouting to be heard, hunching their shoulders when lightning ripped the sky overhead.  
Hogsbrook had risen so high and ran with such frothy whitecapped fury that it almost swamped the little wooden bridge arching over its normally placid streambed.

Above the brook, the Shrieking Shack stood on its hilltop, shutters banging back and forth in the wind. One came loose and flew whickering out of sight. A hot white zigzag touched the iron ball of a lightning rod leaning askew from one of its gables, and the energy sizzled off with a series of pops and snaps. The whole place creaked and swayed side to side.

Harry leaned into the gale, now having to actually fight his way up the path that curved around the hill. He saw a girl ahead of him slip and fall to her knees, and had already hooked a hand under an elbow and pulled her up before realizing it was Jane.

Just then, the rain turned to hail. And not tiny stinging pellets... the hailstones were the size of Snitches. They pelted down with ballistic ferocity. Jane and Harry both cried out, but in the din they could barely hear themselves, let alone each other.

He put his mouth right to her ear. "We've got to get out of this!"

Her head moved in what seemed like a nod, so he assumed she heard, understood, and agreed.

But the village was far behind them now, and Hogwarts even further ahead, and if they tried to reach either, they'd be stoned to death by the unrelenting battery of ice, Diverting Charm or no Diverting Charm. Harry seized Jane's hand and led her toward the Shrieking Shack.

She pulled at him, and when he turned his head he saw her shaking hers, lips moving.

"It's all right!" Harry bellowed. "Come on!"

A hailstone as big as Hagrid's fist plunged between them, a narrow miss that could have caved in their skulls. It hit the path, exploded into sleety shards, left a crater as deep as a cauldron, and Jane quit resisting.

They went through the rickety fence, which was listing worse than ever now. Harry felt like imps with frozen hammers were swarming all around him, striking at his head, shoulders, arms and back over and over.

The porch of the Shrieking Shack wasn't much cover, the roof being pocked with holes and missing several boards, so Harry drew his wand. "_Alohamora_," he shouted at the rusty lock. The wind snatched the word away, but it worked, and the door shuddered open.

Jane hung back again, looking at him like he was mad, but Harry dragged her into the house. Though the noise of the storm was as apocalyptic as ever, the sudden cessation of wind, rain and hail was a physical shock.

Harry pushed back his hood. It slapped down his back, limp and wet as a drowned fish. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Jane peeled off her hood, too, revealing ashen cheeks and wide, frightened eyes.

"It's all right," Harry said again, and this time he only had to shout a little to be heard over the wind.

"But it's the --"

"Shrieking Shack, yeah, I know. Don't worry. It isn't really haunted."

He led her deeper into the house in search of a room that might be less ramshackle than the others. There was another secret passage beneath his feet, but it came up right under the Whomping Willow, and Harry had no desire to tangle with that tree on a day like this. Even if he could get to the knot that stopped its branches moving, it was still a long hike to the safety of the castle.

"We can wait here until the storm lets up," he said.

"You're sure it isn't haunted?"

They reached a room that miraculously had shutters and glass still intact, and better yet had a fireplace on one wall. The fireplace was clogged with old ash that had turned to mud from rain leaking down the chimney, but when Harry pointed his wand into the hearth-- "_Incendio_!"-- flames immediately blazed high.

"Long story," Harry said, "but I promise, it isn't haunted. We're fine here."

It occurred to him that in another sort of situation, this might have been one of those times when, to dry off and warm up, he and the pretty girl were required to shed their soaked garments and huddle together in front of the fire. And who knew what that might lead to?

But instead, Jane used a spell to dry their clothes. He was almost disappointed, then mentally chided himself for being a cad. She took a brush from her purse and undoing her ponytail. Harry used his fingers to comb his hair back out of his eyes. It would end up the same as always, sticking up in the back, falling down in the front, and he didn't much worry about it anymore.

"Looks like my candy didn't melt," Jane announced after inspecting her parcels. She offered a large bag of sweets to Harry. "I've got mint truffles, Cinnamon Chews, crisped rice white chocolate bark, Orange Creams, and Sparkling Wintermints."

"Thanks," he said, taking a Cinnamon Chew. "I've got Cashew Toffee Crunches, Chocolate Frogs, some marshmallow-walnut fudge, and a box of the Halloween assortment."

She chose a Chocolate Frog. "Ugh, Rasputin. Do you keep the cards?"

"Sure," he said. "Don't you?"

"I used to, my third year," she said. "But the vicar found them in my room and burned the lot. I had a Tituba, too."

"He burned a Tituba?"

"And a Crowley."

"Ouch," Harry said.

"After that, I just stopped buying them. I like the frogs, though." She nibbled delicately at a webbed chocolate foot.

"How do you do it?" Harry asked. "Go back every summer, I mean."

"How do you? It's not like either of us have much choice."

"I never had a choice," he said. "Your mum, though ..."

She looked down, and he groaned at having once more put his foot in it.

"Jane, I --"

"No, you're perfectly right," she said. "Your parents didn't choose to put you in that place. They never would have wanted that, I'm sure. Mine did."

"I'm sorry."

"She hated being a witch. She thought it was evil, that it meant her soul would be damned for sure. That's how she ended up with the vicar. She thought he could save her, maybe even save me, too."

"You don't need to be saved," Harry said. "We're not born evil just because we're born witches and wizards."

"Some people think so."

"Some people believe what's in _The Quibbler_."

"Your interview was in _The Quibbler_," she pointed out.

"Well, all right, _that_ was true," he said. "I meant that stuff about Sirius Black being bass player Stubby Boardman."

"I just wish I'd had a chance to know the rest of my family," Jane said somberly. "On her side, I mean. I guess they were a long line of important pureblood wizards, going way back. My mother was a Derwent. Amaryllis Derwent."

"You mean, Derwent as in Dilys Derwent?" Harry paused in the middle of unwrapping the Cashew Toffee Crunches. "Former Hogwarts headmistress, worked at St. Mungo's, portrait in Dumbledore's office?"

"I've never been to Dumbledore's office, but yes."

"Wow," Harry said.

"My mother was the last of the line. How she could give it all up ..."

"Hang on. Doesn't that make _you_ the last of the line?"

Jane looked startled, as if she'd never thought of it that way before. Then her eyes clouded. "But I'm not a Derwent."

"You... um... told me once that your father was a wizard," Harry said, feeling uncomfortable but having to ask. "How come you don't live with his family? Why did your mother marry the vicar instead of him?"

A harsh, terrible laugh burst from Jane. "Marry him? Live with his family?"

"Forget it," he said hastily. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, it's okay," she said, but her shoulders slumped as if a great weight pressed down on her. "Harry... my father... my _real_ father... was a Death Eater."

"I kind of figured it was something like that," Harry said in a low voice.

"If you don't want to talk to me anymore --" Jane started picking up Orange Creams and mint truffles.

He put his hand over hers. "Jane, don't. It doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" She looked up at him, and the pain in her eyes would have knocked him back a step if he'd been standing. "How many times have people told you that you're just like your father?"

"More than I can count," he admitted. "But they say I'm like my mother, too. And what I _really_ am is myself."

"Blood will out," she said.

"Bollocks!" Harry spat. "That sounds just like something Aunt Marge always says, except she says it about dogs."

"There's never been a Derwent in Slytherin House," Jane said. "I looked it up. The family goes back almost eight hundred years, and every single one of them has been in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Clearly, I'm no Derwent."

"Stop it," Harry said forcefully. "You're no Death Eater, either. I know how you feel about them. You'll never be like that." He reached out on impulse and took her face between his palms. "Never, Jane."

"You can't be sure."

He could feel her trembling, but wouldn't let her draw away. "You are _not_ like them. Who your father was doesn't matter. It doesn't change who _you_ are."

She turned her head a little, closed her eyes when he still would not let go. A single tear slid from beneath the fringe of dusky lashes and trickled down, warm as it ran along his thumb.

A new and awful thought came to him then-- Malfoy's insistence that the deaths of Nott, Crabbe and Goyle were not suicide, not coincidence at all, but a carefully crafted series of murders. Murders targeting the children of Death Eaters. If it was true... it wasn't, it couldn't be, Malfoy was as usual looking for someone else, preferably Harry, to blame... but if somehow it _was_...

"Does anyone else know?" he asked.

"No one," Jane whispered. "My mother told me before she died, and I've never said a word to anyone else. Unless Dumbledore knows. The Sorting Hat ..."

"Jane, look at me."

Her eyes stayed closed. "Please, Harry."

"Look at me."

She opened her eyes, so dark and brimming with tears. He wanted to kiss her, and what was it with him that any time he got in a position to kiss a girl, said girl was always crying? He shoved that out of his mind.

"I trust you," he said.

"You shouldn't."

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"How could I?"

He sensed what she meant and grinned. "What, you think I'm better at defense spells than you are at jinxing?"

Against her will, Jane smiled a bit. "I don't think either of us want to find out the answer to that question."

He curled his right hand so that instead of cupping her face against his palm, the backs of his knuckles brushed gently along the curve of her cheek. Her skin felt like fine satin, and he decided that tears or no tears, damn it, he was going to go ahead and kiss her.

"So, what's this?" a cool, haughty voice said from behind him. "Plain Jane's not such a cold fishie after all. Who's your _boyfriend_, Janie?"

To be continued in Chapter Nineteen -- A Dark and Stormy Night ... coming Tuesday, January 11, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2004 by Christine Morgan_


	19. A Dark and Stormy Night

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Nineteen: A Dark and Stormy Night  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Jane gasped in alarm and dismay. Harry let go of her and she sprang to her feet. "Devona! What are you doing here?" 

"I could ask the same of you," the cool, haughty voice said.

Harry recognized her as being in Jane's year, the Slytherin girl with the dramatic black-and-white streaked hair, which was currently tumbled in long damp ringlets around a sculpted face that might have been beautiful if not for the arrogant twist to the mouth.

"This is the Shrieking Shack!" Jane said.

"Doesn't _seem_ very haunted," Devona said dismissively. "Besides, even if it were, my family's manor has nine hundred and ninety-nine ghosts. So a few more noisy spooks aren't going to bother _me_. But you didn't answer me, Janie-Jane. Who's your _boyfriend_?" She said the last word in a sneering sing-song.

Slowly, Harry stood to his full height and turned so that the glow of the fire illuminated his face. His hair was still back from his brow, and he was sure that his scar had to be blatantly visible.

"I guess that'd be me," Harry said in a deceptively casual voice.

Beside him, Jane shrank in on herself with despair. "Harry, no," she moaned. "No, don't ..."

But Devona Stormdark's reaction was beyond priceless. She actually tottered back a few steps, and might have fallen on her backside had she not collided with a wall. A stammered bit of nonsense spilled from her lips. She looked like the only thing keeping her from tearing out of the house howling in terror was the fact that her unhinged, rubbery legs could barely hold her upright. Blasé about ghosts, all right ... but coming eye to eye with Harry Potter?

"Huh... hah ..." wheezed Devona, like someone having an asthma attack.

Like Malfoy, she came from old pureblood money and lots of it. Her clothes were always a cut or two above even the best-dressed students at Hogwarts, and she was fond of ostentatious antique jewelry, each piece with a history and a Dark history at that. Harry remembered Blaise Zabini saying that Devona's grandfather had been a Death Eater, and dimly recalled Sirius once mentioning that the Stormdarks were related to and intermarried with the Malfoys.

"That's it," Jane said in a dull, hopeless voice. "They'll know. Now what'll I do?"

"You haven't done anything wrong," Harry said. "You --"

As Devona recovered her wits, a cruel, cruel light gleamed in her indigo eyes. Jane saw it, and took a step toward the other girl. Harry put out a hand to stop her, but Jane pushed it aside.

"Let me talk to her," she said. "Please. Let me try."

"All right," Harry said, not liking it at all. He stood back, crossing his arms.

"Devona --"

"Oh, Jane! Jane, Jane, Jane!" Devona's tone was mirthful and rich with scorn. "I _never_ would have guessed. You and Potter? _Potter_? You're in love with him; I can see it in your face. And you call yourself a Slytherin!"

"What will it take, Devona?"

"What... oh, you have got to be joking! What will it take? To win my silence? You think you can bribe me into keeping quiet about this?" Devona laughed. "Even if I were as poor as Theodore Nott was, there still wouldn't be Galleons enough in all the world! This is too good, Jane, too precious by half!"

"You can't tell anyone," Jane said desperately.

"I'll tell _everyone_!" she crowed. "I've been waiting for _years_ to find something to distract Draco Malfoy from that abrasive sow Pansy Parkinson, and this will be just the thing. When I deliver _this_ tasty tidbit of information to him, he'll forget all about her."

"No!" Jane cried.

"I don't know what the Gryffindors will think of your _boyfriend_ there," Devona continued, clearly enjoying herself now that she had bounced back so quickly from the initial shock and fright. "Probably overlook it the way they overlook all of the great Harry Potter's flaws and failings-- they've been kissing his arse so long they must like the flavor by now. You, though... you'll never be able to show your face in Slytherin House again!"

Harry bridled, but kept quiet with a Herculean effort.

"I'll do anything you say," Jane said. "Anything, Devona, if only you won't tell."

"What I don't understand is how you could stoop to this!" Devona rolled her eyes theatrically. "A move so stupid and emotional, they'll probably re-Sort you into _Hufflepuff_!"

"You have to listen to me!"

"Oh, no, no, no," Devona said. "It's too perfect, Janie. I only ducked in to get out of the weather. But news this good is worth risking a case of the sniffles. I'll just go, and leave you two to your little love nest."

Sweeping her heavy, crushed-velvet robes around her body, she went for the door. Her smoky, mocking laugh rang to the splintery rafters.

"Devona!" Jane went after her.

Harry started to follow Jane, but she stopped him in his tracks with a heartbroken, imploring look.

"She won't," he said.

"I have to try!"

"Jane --"

With a miserable sob, she rushed down the hall. Harry cursed and slammed a fist into the wall. A chunk of plaster cracked away, shedding pale dust on his feet.

It was done. Everything was ruined. He had lost his eyes and ears inside Slytherin House, lost any hope of ever knowing what was going on with their Dark Arts Club... but that wasn't the worst of it.

The worst of it was Jane. Devona was right. She'd never be able to show her face in Slytherin again, would be shunned by all her former friends. If she did have to stay in that House, her life wouldn't be worth a bent Knut. If she did get swapped to another, even to Gryffindor, no one would ever trust her. She was in for years of a living hell, always the outcast, always hated.

She'd probably have to leave school altogether, and then what? Back to the parsonage? Back to the Muggle world, to the vicar who had underlined the passage about not suffering a witch to live?

He should have known something like this would happen. It didn't hurt _him_ at all, but he should have realized the risk Jane was taking. The risk he was putting her in. Once again, here he was, putting his friends at risk!

He cursed some more as he stuffed sweets back into Honeydukes bags and hurried to the Shrieking Shack's front door. He had no idea what he would do, only the driving urge that he had to do _something_.

The hail had stopped, and early night had fallen, but the storm raged on. As he opened the door, it was yanked out of his hand and off its hinges by a sudden hurricane gust. Harry ducked away from the splinters and watched as the door cartwheeled end over end down the hill. The rain was blowing so hard it was almost horizontal.

The building quivered as another bolt of lightning struck the rod in the roof. The thunder was immediate and ear-splitting. In the dazzling flash, Harry saw Jane and Devona partway down the hill, near the leaning skeleton of an ancient oak tree that tilted out over the foaming torrent of Hogsbrook.

Something in their stances, even in that brief momentary glimpse, sent adrenaline pumping through his veins. He dashed into the storm without a second thought, running toward them through the sheeting rain.

Another enormous celestial explosion was so bright that it cast his shadow on the slippery rain-matted grass.

"Jane!" he shouted, but again, the wind and thunder robbed his voice of any volume.

She was on her knees in front of Devona, her head bent back, rain pounding at her defenseless, upturned face. Devona loomed over her, right hand holding Jane by the neck, the left leveling a wand right between Jane's eyes.  
Jane's own wand hand was held stiffly down and out to her side as she tugged futilely at Devona's choking grasp with the other.

More lightning, stitches of it jabbing the black cloth of the sky. Harry, running fast as he could, saw Devona's triumphant, hideous sneer. He saw Jane's features relax, her eyes close in a gesture of resigned acceptance.

"Leave her alone!" he roared, unheard in the storm. He plunged down the hill at breakneck speed. One misstep and he _would_ break his neck, then slide all the way down and into the floodwaters of Hogsbrook. He drew his wand.

Devona leaned close and said something to Jane. Harry didn't have to be close enough to hear, or able to read lips, to know it was probably a taunting good-bye.

Closer now, almost on top of them, Harry shouted, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Keyed up as he was, the spell leaped out of him with what felt like ten times its usual potency and half his usual discriminatory aim. Both girls' wands popped out of their hands and spun off into the grass.

Half a second later, the sky erupted in jagged white fire. The iron rod atop the Shrieking Shack split asunder, sending dull-red spears of glowing metal whirling through the night. One landed near Harry, still so hot that the wet ground smoldered and the rain boiled away in hissing steam.

Another bolt struck the leaning tree.

He saw it happen. Saw the stark black limbs and branches outlined in electric-purple light. Saw the trunk explode and burning wood shoot high into the air like a fireworks display.

Saw a massive branch, spiky with sharp dead twigs, slam into Devona and Jane and knock them both flying. Backward. Down the hill. Tumbling like carelessly tossed broken dolls off the edge of the muddy embankment and into the raging current of the brook.

Harry was on his hands and knees without knowing how he got there, perhaps hammered flat by the concussive thunder-blast. Ears ringing, eyes dancing with garish after-images from the lightning, a metallic ozone taste in his mouth and his glasses feeling fused to his head, he scrambled up and raced the rest of the way to the shattered remains of the leaning tree.

It blazed defiantly in the downpour, a gigantic torch. Harry ran under it, through falling embers, an arm over his face. He came to the edge, skidded, almost went over himself, and stopped.

Below him, Hogsbrook swept along, a ferocious cataract. He scanned its choppy surface with mounting panic, seeing neither of the girls, seeing only storm debris in the surging flow.

He ran downstream toward Hogsmeade, yelling until he was hoarse and felt like slivers of glass had lodged in his throat. Ahead was the bridge, the surface of the water by now so high it was churning over the planks. He spotted something hung up there, caught against it, and was spurred on by frantic hope.

A waterlogged branch. Nothing more than that.

"Damn it, no!"

Harry ran around the bridge, saw a deep eddying whirlpool where the streambed curved. There, just for an instant, was a sudden splashing, a head breaking the surface, a last-ditch gasping for air.

"Jaaaaane!" He charged in, knee-deep, and the force of the water almost tore his legs out from under him. He could barely keep his footing.

The head had vanished. The fire was too far behind to let him see anything. He was in waist-deep now and shaking with the exertion of resisting the inexorable current. They would be all dark robes and dark hair swirling in the dark, dark water... how could he possibly--

And then, a pale flicker, a white hand drifting palm-up. There and then gone, not much bigger than a Golden Snitch, but Harry lunged for it and seized it with unerring accuracy.

It felt cold, and slack, and lifeless.

Harry's feet skidded on submerged stones. The current swept him four yards downstream and into water up to his chest. He battled the current, never letting go of that hand.

"Harry!"

His head snapped up and around. Ron was on the bank, looking scared half to death but resolute. Behind him, in that screaming yellow raincoat and red belt, was Luna Lovegood, looking interestedly attentive.

"Ron!" Harry stretched out an arm.

"Hang on!" Ron waded in, slipped, went to one knee.

"Careful, Ron!"

"I... I can't reach ..."

"Just a little farther," urged Harry, straining toward Ron's hand.

"Here!" Luna whipped off the belt of her raincoat, snapped it around a fence post and drew it taut, then wrapped the end around her wrist and seized the back of Ron's robes with her free hand. "I've got you, Ron!"

Ron's eyes met Harry's and Harry could read his thoughts-- trust their lives to Looney Lovegood? But what choice did they have? Ron inched deeper into the brook, leaned way out, and his fingers touched Harry's.

"A little more!" Harry said through clenched teeth.

The wind rose again in a furious howling gale, flapping Luna's raincoat out to either side of her like large yellow wings. Harry's feet-- numb by now, like blocks of ice-- slipped again. He threw himself toward Ron in one final desperate move. If it failed, he would be carried downstream and that would be that.

But Ron caught his wrist in a tight grip. "There! Got you! Pull, Luna, pull me back!"

"Don't let go," Harry said.

"Won't happen," Ron assured him.

Together, he and Luna pulled Harry toward shore. Harry kept hold of that pale, motionless hand, and once he had gotten his feet under him again, he dragged the body to the surface, and to the shore. Ron helped him carry her, Luna helped them both. They all stumbled up the sloping bank and collapsed in the dubious shelter from the storm offered by a hedge. The rain was still coming down in buckets but it felt almost warm after being immersed.

Luna lit her wand. Harry, almost afraid to look, levered himself up onto his knees again beside the girl he'd hauled out of Hogsbrook.

Dark hair... no streaks of white.

It was Jane.

He turned her onto her back. She was ghostly pale, her lips tinged blue.

"That's Jane Kirkallen," Luna said in a voice that sounded only mildly surprised.

"Is she ...?" Ron asked.

Harry shook her. Jane's head lolled.

"Jane? Jane!"

"I don't think she's breathing," Luna said.

"Don't say that!" Harry shouted. He gathered Jane up in his arms, feeling how cold she was, how limp and heavy. "Jane, come on, Jane! Wake up. Breathe! Somebody... where's my wand? I lost my damned wand. Somebody... somebody cast the Awakening Charm!"

"I'll do it," Ron said, aiming his wand at Jane. "_Ennervate_!"

Harry, holding her, felt the jolt of revivifying power tingle through her. She jerked, coughed up a lungful of water, and began shuddering all over. Her hands rose, clawed fitfully at the air, then dropped into her lap. Her head fell against his shoulder with a soft thump.

"Jane?"

Her eyelids fluttered.

"Jane, talk to me." Harry stroked her face. "Please."

"Harry?" she said weakly, and coughed again.

Fierce exultation swept through him. "You're all right!"

"Harry... you're crushing me," Jane said.

He realized he had tightened his embrace, that he _was_ crushing her against him, and that both Ron and Luna were watching. Ron grinning half-enviously, Luna with a vaguely bemused expression.

"Sorry," he said, but only loosened his hold instead of entirely letting go.

"What ..." Jane's eyes opened wide. "Devona!"

"Devona Stormdark?" Luna asked.

"I didn't see her," Harry said. "I almost didn't see you. She ..." He glanced helplessly at Hogsbrook.

"What happened?" Ron said, the grin suddenly wiped off his face.

"They were by the tree," Harry said, indicating the still-burning oak skeleton-- and astonished to see how far away it was, how far downstream he had run in his panicked chase. "Lightning hit it, and knocked them both into the brook."

"You mean she ..." Ron trailed off and bit his lip as he looked at the roiling, speeding water.

Harry sensed Jane's troubled gaze on him. He looked down into her eyes, trying to tell her wordlessly that he wasn't going to mention anything more, not yet. He didn't know what had transpired there between Jane and Devona in those last few moments, but it must have been ugly.

"I didn't know you two knew each other," Luna said, her attention shifting from Harry to Jane. She seemed unperturbed by the probable fate of Devona Stormdark, but it was hard to tell with Luna.

"You can't tell anyone, all right?" Ron said. "It's... well, kind of a secret."

"Even if I told someone, who'd believe _me_?" shrugged Luna.

"I mean it, here," Ron persisted. "You can't tell _anyone_. Come on, Luna. Please."

"You don't need to beg, Ronald," she said. "I won't tell."

"Thanks, Luna," Harry said.

"But we'll have to think of something to say," she continued. "People saw that explosion. We did, didn't we? And we weren't half paying attention."

Ron nodded, and Harry couldn't be sure in the darkness, but he thought Ron had gone beet-red.

"And they'll want to know about Devona," Luna added.

"We tell mostly the truth," Harry said. "I saw them go into the brook, I tried to save them, and could only find Jane. You two helped me pull her out. We just... leave out the rest. All right, Jane?"

"You... you didn't even know who it was you were fishing out of the river," she said.

"Exactly."

"Our wands ..."

"Up on the hill," he said. "Mine... who knows? I either dropped it there, or it's on its way to the Atlantic Ocean by now."

"I'll go look for them," Luna said. "Ron will go to the village and bring back help. Maybe there's still a chance to find Devona. And Jane looks like she could use a Healer. Sorry, Jane, but you do look dreadful."

"Where'm I going?" Ron asked as she tugged him to his feet. He looked like he was not sure what to make of a decisive, quick-thinking, fast-acting Luna.

"I'm going up there by the Shrieking Shack. It's horribly haunted, you know, but I have it on good authority that ghosts can't stand it if you sing the goblin song. You're going to the Three Broomsticks or anyplace there are a lot of people, to tell them about Devona and bring back a Healer and a search party."

They set off, Luna breaking into song, Ron rubbing his head in disbelief.

"How are you doing?" Harry asked Jane. He was still holding her, still stroking her face, but now she turned her head away.

"Harry... you should have let me go."

"What? That's crazy, what are you saying?"

"It's no good. I... I can't go on like this. All the deception, and the betrayals!"

"So you want to die, is that it?" Harry shook his head. "I don't think so, Jane. Not on my watch."

"You can't save me every time, Harry."

"Try me."

"You can't save me from _myself_!"

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"You say that, but --"

"I say it because it's true."

"I killed Devona!"

"Jane, I was there. I saw what happened. She had you at wand's point, she had you by the neck. I don't know what you two were saying to each other, but she was the one who was trying to hurt you."

"But I --"

"Maybe she wouldn't have been out there in the first place if not for you, okay," Harry said brusquely. "But that makes it as much my fault as yours. The rest of it, the lightning bolt and the water... none of us had any control over that. You can't blame yourself for this. I won't let you."

"You... you're crushing me again," she said. "Maybe you should --"

"No," Harry said.

"Ron will bring others," she said. "They can't find you holding onto me like this."

"I'm tempted to let them."

"Harry, we can't! That was the... Devona ... the whole thing ..."

"All right," he said. "Just... first ..."

"What?"

"This."

He kissed her.

Jane went still as a statue, and Harry thought for certain that she was going to slap him so hard his eyes spun in his head like pinwheels. But then she kissed back. They were both drenched and in the middle of the pouring rain, but somehow it didn't matter this time.

When it broke, he let go of her and she sat there looking stunned, touching her own lips with trembling fingertips as if she could not believe what they had just done.

"We... really shouldn't ..."

"So what?" Harry said defiantly. "We shouldn't. We both know that. We did it anyway. And don't you dare regret it, Jane, because I don't."

She bowed her head for a while, then raised it. "You saved my life, Harry. Thank you. I... I hope that you never regret that, either."

"I really wish you'd quit saying stuff like that."

"See the little goblin, see his little feet," Luna sang, skipping back into view with her unbelted raincoat flying back in the wind, puffer fish swinging from her earlobes, and a cluster of wands held in one hand like a strange bouquet. "See his little nosey-wose, isn't the goblin --" she stopped singing. "Oh, here you are! I found three. Which one is whose?"

"Mine," Harry said, claiming it.

"And that one's mine," Jane said, taking hers.

"So, the song worked?" He tried not to smile.

"Perfectly," Luna said in all seriousness. "I didn't see a single ghost or hear anything but the wind and thunder."

"That's great," Harry said. "Good to know."

A few minutes later, Ron showed up at the head of an excited mob. The storm had lessened enough for them to venture out, especially with a tale of an emergency like this. Most of them were students, and the sight of Harry and Luna sitting there with a very wet and bedraggled Jane left them boggled with astonishment.

Nadine Zellis and Tiberius Flint pushed in and took charge of Jane, shooting suspicious glares at Harry and Luna. She told them in a shaky, stammering voice that she and Devona Stormdark had been up by the Shrieking Shack, trying to shelter from the storm under the oak, when it had been struck by lightning and they'd fallen into the brook. She said that the next thing she knew, someone was pulling her out.

"You saved a Slytherin?" Dennis Creevey asked Harry in what was perhaps intended to be an undertone.

"Oh!" Hermione huffed. "And I suppose we should just let someone drown because they're Slytherin?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Dennis said, abashed.

"Besides," Colin said, trying to be helpful, "he probably didn't know she was Slytherin until he got her out of the water."

At the same time, Millicent Bulstrode was saying, "Ugh, saved by a Gryffindor, I'd rather have drowned!"

"Saved by _Potter_," Tiberius Flint said, and made a face.

Ron had also gotten Madame Rosmerta to send an urgent owl up to the school, despite the weather, and moments later a bunch of teachers arrived. Hagrid and Firenze, the two most durable beings among them, each led a search party of adults and seventh-year volunteers down the opposite banks of the Hogsbrook.

Madame Pomfrey checked Jane over, commended Ron for his adept use of the Awakening Charm, and had her sent up to the hospital wing with her Student Apprentice, Lavender, while she stayed behind in case her skills were needed when Devona was found. Jane went with no protest, accompanied by Nadine Zellis.

"Oh, and here's this," Luna said, holding up Devona's wand. "I found it caught up in some driftwood."

She turned it over to Professor Snape, who pocketed it with a thin-lipped scowl. Harry noticed that many of the Slytherins were sticking close to Snape, and muttering amongst themselves.

"grandfather was a Death Eater," Harry heard one of them say.

"Her uncle, Damien Stormdark, is married to Draco's Aunt Lucrezia," someone else said.

"It's true, isn't it?" Pansy wailed, wringing her hands. "Someone's killing the descendants of Death Eaters! Oh, Draco! What if they come for you next?"

"Enough," Snape said, his voice like the sudden crack of a whip. "Mr. Malfoy is perfectly safe, as are the rest of you. What happened here tonight is nothing more than accident and misfortune, I assure you. And for all we know, Miss Stormdark will turn up fine and well --"

A hue and cry went up from three hundred yards or so downstream, and flurries of red wand sparks fired into the rainy sky, where they were swiftly scattered by the wind. Everyone who had stayed behind now stampeded that way, Snape and Madame Rosmerta trying vainly to dissuade them.

Firenze had found Devona, her body caught against one of the stone stanchions that supported the train tracks where they crossed the Hogsbrook. She had been removed from the water by the time the rest of them arrived, and Madame Pomfrey had covered her with a cloak, but the solemn sight of her draped body left them all silent and grim.

"All right," Professor McGonagall said, shooing them away from the circle of wand-lights. "Back to the castle, all of you. It's very late, hours past the time you all should have been back, but the rain's let up enough. Quickly, now."

Even with the rain having let up some, it was a long wet wretched trudge through the mud up to Hogwarts. No one said much. Hermione and Ginny in particular kept shooting Harry looks, knowing somehow that there was much more to the story than what they'd been told, but Harry didn't say anything.

He knew he should be distressed by the death of yet another student. But all he could think of was Jane. How it had felt to almost lose her, to have her be alive after all, to hold her. To kiss her.

And yet... all the things she had said, all the points she had made. She was Slytherin. The daughter of a Death Eater. They _couldn't_ be right for each other. Both of them knew it. Was that part of what they felt? The forbidden attraction, the secrecy, the doomed nature of any such relationship?

The daughter of a Death Eater. He wondered who her father had been. Dead long ago, no doubt, one of the many killed by Aurors-- no surprise that she'd been so alarmed, then, by Tonks and Moody showing up-- or even murdered by Voldemort himself in a fit of pique. Hadn't Sirius' brother Regulus died like that? Tried to back out of the Death Eaters and discovered the hard way that it was a one-way-only commitment, that was what Sirius had said.

Harry thought about that as he climbed the steps to the entrance hall. He thought of the Death Eaters he'd met... Snape, Karkaroff, Macnair the executioner, Bellatrix Lestrange, Crabbe and Goyle Senior, Lucius Malfoy. He knew how he felt about _their_ children.

What if Jane had told him she was Snape's daughter? Draco Malfoy's sister? What if her father had been Barty Crouch Jr.? He had said it didn't matter. Did it? Would he still be able to care about her?

The house-elves had waited supper, an informal meal of beef stew, fresh crusty bread, and hot apple crumble. Perfect for a cold, stormy day, but once they had all dried off and changed clothes and taken their places at the long tables, all anyone could do was pick at their food. For once, it couldn't even be blamed on too many butterbeers or an overindulgence in Honeydukes sweets.

Speaking of which... Harry started and touched his pocket. He had Jane's bag of candy in there as well as his own. Her mint truffles and Cinnamon Chews and Orange Creams and other purchases. How was he going to get them to her?

Later, up in the Gryffindor common room, he was keenly aware of Hermione and Ginny waiting with ill-concealed impatience for everyone else to go to bed so they could ask him about Jane. But Harry, reminding them that there was Quidditch the next day, suggested that his team retire early and took his own advice.

Ron followed him up to the dormitory and they got into their pajamas. Harry was lost in his own thoughts when he noticed something, did a double take, and even rubbed his eyes to look a third time.

"Hey, Ron?"

"What?" he yawned, getting into bed.

Despite himself, Harry broke into a wide grin. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, is that a hickey on your neck?"

To be continued in Chapter Twenty -- Kiss and Tell ... coming Friday, January 18th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	20. Kiss and Tell

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty: Kiss and Tell  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

_(Author's Note, additional: this chapter contains at least one instance of strong language)_

Ron leapt a clear foot in the air, and slapped a guilty hand over the dark blotch on the side of his neck. His face went as maroon as his pajamas.

"I don't know what you're on about!" he said.

"It is, isn't it?" Harry was up off his bed in amazement.

"It certainly isn't!"

"You've got a hickey! From... from Luna Lovegood!"

"No, I haven't!"

"Well, what is it, then?"

"A... bruise."

"A bruise?" Harry hoisted one askance eyebrow.

"I ..." Ron gave the impression of grasping wildly at straws. His eyes lit up. "Quidditch! It's from Quidditch! I was hit by a Bludger!"

"Ron, d'you reckon I'm stupid? We haven't even had practice all week, and if a Bludger had hit you on the neck hard enough to bruise that dark, it'd have torn your head clean off."

"A burn, then! Burned myself, that's what happened."

"On the neck?"

"When we were doing those ironing spells in Charms. I was trying to iron my collar, and I burned my neck."

"The ironing spells were days ago," Harry said. "I'd swear you didn't have that mark this morning."

"I was ironing my collar this morning," Ron said. "Before Hogsmeade."

Harry only stood and gazed at him, evenly, with the tiniest hint of reproachfulness, until Ron caved in. He slumped on the edge of his bed, sitting on the curtain and ripping it loose of several of the rings, and buried his head in his hands.

"All right," he groaned. "It's a hickey! There! I admit it! Now, can we talk about something else?"

"No," Harry said frankly. "I want to hear."

"There's nothing to tell!"

"_I_ kissed Jane."

Ron's head came up fast. "Thought you might," he said. "The way you were holding onto her, there by the brook. How was it?"

"Wet," Harry said.

"That's what you said last Christmas about Cho."

"Well, we had just pulled her out of the water. And it was raining. Cho was crying. Different situation."

"So... wet? Is that all?"

Harry thought about it. "Intense."

"Nice," Ron said admiringly. "So you do fancy her."

"If your mother finds out, she'll disown me," Harry said.

"My mum can't disown you, and even if she could, it's not like you'd be missing out on some ruddy big inheritance anyway," Ron pointed out. "Besides, when you had a ruddy big inheritance, you gave it away to Arcturus."

"Still, you know how she is about Jane. Tonks and Moody, too. Everyone else thinks it's the worst idea in the world."

"Yeah, it probably is," Ron said. "You could have your pick of about any girl in school, and you fancy a Slytherin?"

"Any girl in school? Are you mad? I could not."

"Sure you could. The famous Harry Potter? You're the good-looking one, mate, let's be honest here."

"That's rubbish."

"I've heard the way the girls talk about you when they think no one's listening," Ron said. "Not just Ginny and Moaning Myrtle, either. All of them!"

An uncomfortable sensation prickled over Harry. "You're putting me on."

"Maybe not _all_ of them," Ron amended. "But enough of them. Last year, after you and Fred and George got banned off the Quidditch team, I heard Angelina and Alicia and Katie going on about you, how cute you are."

"Cute?" Harry echoed, offended.

"Even Parvati says so, though she always adds how it didn't stop you from being a boring prat at the Yule Ball two years ago."

"Cute?" he repeated, his nose wrinkling.

"And so brave, and so smart, and so noble," Ron said, rolling his eyes, holding up one hand and opening and closing the fingers against the thumb to mimic endless girl-chatter.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered.

"Heroic, too."

"Okay, Ron! Enough already!"

"Not that I'm jealous or anything," Ron said. "I'm just stating the facts. You're the good-looking one, mate. Face it."

Now it was Harry's turn to bury his head in his hands. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. Girls talking about him? Saying things like that behind his back?

And it wasn't even true. _Sirius_ had been handsome. Maybe not all of the time... maybe not even most of the time Harry had known him ... but when Sirius had been a teenager, when Sirius had danced and laughed in the photographs taken at Harry's parents' wedding... _that_ was the standard by which Harry measured male good looks, and knew full well that he was nowhere close to stacking up to Sirius.

"You could've warned me about this before," he said.

"Thought you knew," Ron said with a shrug. "Pretty obvious, if you ask me."

"I don't understand girls at all."

"Reckon we never will. They like it that way. Keeps us confused. My dad still doesn't understand Mum, and they've been married twenty-five years."

Harry thought that when it came right down to it, Mr. Weasley  for all that he was a cheerful and generous person  didn't really understand much of anything. He sort of rolled through life in an amiable fog, and was perfectly happy. But Harry wasn't going to say so to Ron.

"So, I told you my secret," Harry said instead. "Your turn. I want to hear about you and Luna."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"There isn't much to tell." Ron was turning red again.

"You've got a hickey shaped like a crescent moon on your neck, and you're saying that there isn't much to tell? You made out with Luna."

"I didn't mean to." He exhaled heavily. "Dunno how it happened, really. I didn't even want to go out with her! You were there this morning. I was tricked! Shanghaied! It was... it was an ambush-date!"

"Why'd you go through with it, then?"

"Tried to get out of it, didn't I?"

"Did you?" asked Harry. "Like you said, I was there. I don't remember you saying no."

"I couldn't say no, not... not right out in front of everyone. There was no good way to get out of it. I was trapped! Half the Great Hall was watching. What was I going to do? Tell her that I didn't like her and I wished she'd leave me alone?"

"That would've been a little mean," Harry said. "And she's not so bad, Luna. She can be... daffy... but she can be sharp, too. The way she was earlier tonight, using her belt like an anchor so you could reach me? That was good."

"I never said she wasn't nice," Ron said. "She's even... kind of... pretty... once you get used to her. I guess. Her eyes are weird, sure... sticking out like that... but they're a... a pretty color."

"So you do like her."

Ron flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't know!"

"You didn't want to hurt her feelings. That's a start. And you think she's pretty."

"Kind of pretty, I said."

"Fine. Kind of pretty. Now explain the hickey."

Again, he clapped a hand to the side of his neck.

"People are going to notice," Harry said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"I'll wear turtleneck jumpers. Scarves."

"That'll just look like you're hiding something. If Fred and George were here --"

He shuddered. "I'd never bloody live it down if _they_ found out!"

"Even if you can keep it hidden," Harry said, "you know how Luna is. She'll say something, or come up to you at breakfast tomorrow morning and --"

"Aaaagh!" Ron rolled over, shoved his face into the mattress, seized his pillow, and crammed it over his head. His voice was muffled. "That's not funny, Harry."

"Does _she_ have any hickeys?"

Ron's shoulders bunched and he crammed the pillow even harder down on the back of his head.

Harry had mostly been teasing, but this reaction... "_Does_ she, Ron?"

"How should I know?" Ron's muffled scream came from under the pillow.

It was not very nice of him to be taking such delight in tormenting his best friend this way. Not nice to be laughing the very same night that another student had died, when all of Hogwarts should have been in shock and mourning. But so much had happened ... his own emotions had been veering crazily in all directions... that Ron's problem somehow helped bring all of his own back into some kind of perspective.

"Ron?"

With the air of a man ascending the steps to the guillotine, Ron removed the pillow from his head and rolled onto his back again. "She might."

Harry made encouraging noises.

"We got to Hogsmeade," Ron said, "and of course it was raining like hell. The Three Broomsticks was packed-- I saw you, but you must not have seen me in the crowd."

"Guess not," Harry said.

"I saw Hermione, too, but she must still be mad about something. I tried to say hello, and, Harry, she cut me dead."

"Really?"

"I swear I don't know what's the matter with her," Ron grumbled. "Anyway, I had a butterbeer... Luna had cocoa; she said she normally gets gillywater but today was too cold for it. Then we went around to some of the shops, you know, the usual stuff. Did you get to Honeydukes? I bought a bunch of their new Fire and Ice Gumdrops. You should try them. They make you breathe fire or blow frost clouds, and if you pop one of each in your mouth, you spout steam."

"Cool."

"The storm was getting bad by then," Ron said. "The whole street was four inches deep in mudpuddles. Somehow, we ended up over by Four Founders Park-- ever been there?"

Harry shook his head.

"It's just a little park with a sundial in the middle and statues of the four Hogwarts founders," Ron explained. "You know-- Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. There are paths all around it, through the woods. Not woods like the Forbidden Forest but more like what's around the Burrow."

"Heck of a day to go to the park," Harry said.

"It was Luna's idea," Ron said. "She says there've been reported sightings of Thimblenurks around there, but that they only come out in the rain."

"What's a... no, never mind."

"So we looked for Thimblenurks. Didn't find any, and that was when the hail started coming down."

"That was some serious hail," Harry agreed.

"Here and there along the paths are these little wooden gazebos," Ron said. "Not much more than a peaked roof and latticed side rails around benches, but good enough to keep the hail from cracking our heads open. We sat on a bench, and... and... somehow ... I don't know how... she said something, and I couldn't hear her with the thunder, so I yelled 'what?' and turned, and she was right there close to me... and it was like we just... bumped into each other with our lips."

Harry found that he could envision this quite clearly. A whimsical gazebo like ones he'd sometimes seen around Little Whinging, an isolated little island in the middle of the storm. Hailstones bouncing off the roof and piling up in gritty white heaps. Ron, with his red hair soaked and streaming rivulets of water, Luna in her brilliant yellow raincoat, accidentally blundering into a kiss.

"And then it was like she went mad," Ron said. He had a faraway look in his eyes, remembering. "She bloody well tackled me off that bench and was all over me! I mean, Harry, we were on the floor of that gazebo and she was smacking kisses all over my face... it was like she was... possessed by some... kissing-demon."

"Luna?"

"Luna!"

"What'd you do?"

"What _could_ I do?"

"Did you ask her to stop?"

"Couldn't very well talk with my mouth full, could I?"

Harry choked.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut. "Ooh. Didn't mean to say that."

"A bit more than I wanted to know, yeah."

He found, also, that not only could he envision _this_ quite clearly, too... he couldn't _not_ envision it. Ron and Luna, tangled up on the floor beside a bench... carrying on like people in the soap operas Aunt Petunia liked to watch in the afternoons before Uncle Vernon came home... slobbering all over each other.

"Sorry," Ron said. "Maybe there was something in the butterbeer. Do you think there could have been? Like... a potion?"

"You mean like a love potion?"

Ron flinched at the L word. "Some kind of a potion, anyway! Maybe Malfoy --"

"I think the only thing in your butterbeer was butterbeer."

"I wasn't drunk!" Ron protested. "Butterbeer hardly has any alcohol at all. It's not like I was drinking firewhiskey."

"It gets Winky sloshed."

"And she drinks twice her body weight of it. I wasn't drunk!"

"So... you were sober and kissing Luna."

"There's got to be some other explanation."

"Is it easier to think that Malfoy drugged your butterbeer?"

"Not easier," Ron said. "Preferable, maybe. Harry, what was I doing? I was kissing her! Hugging her! She was chewing on my neck like a vampire! I touched her --"

"Ron!" Harry raised both hands fast, like a traffic cop. "I get the picture."

"And it is a vivid one, isn't it?" Hermione asked acidly.

He and Ron shot off their beds like they'd been fired from catapults.

Hermione stood in the doorway of their dormitory room, wearing a fluffy bathrobe over a long flannel nightie, her hair brushed and shining, her eyes as scary as those of a gorgon. She had her fists clenched at her sides, the knuckles white, and Harry thought that he had never seen her looking so furious.

"Hermione!" Ron grabbed up his own bathrobe and tried to struggle into it. "Don't you bloody knock?"

"How long have you been standing there?" Harry asked.

"Long enough," she said. "More than long enough. Ron Weasley, you unbelievable _bastard_!"

"What?" Ron was brick red, sputtering, trying for righteous indignation. "Me? And what are you doing here anyway? It's unfair you can walk into our room anytime you like, but let one of us try to set foot in _your_ dormitory and --"

Her gaze was fixed on his neck. This dawned on Ron, and Harry had time to think that for once, Ron was experiencing an inkling of what he, Harry, lived through with his scar almost every day of his life. Welcome to the wonderful world of being a marked man, Ron, he thought. How do you like it?

"Burned," Ron said. "Ironing. Collar."

"Bullshit," Hermione said.

Ron and Harry gaped.

She crossed the room, such crackling angry energy around her that it was like being out in the thunderstorm all over again.

"Um, Hermione?" Harry ventured.

But he might as well have suddenly had his Invisibility Cloak drop over him and a Silencing Charm manifest around him for all the notice that she paid. She stalked toward Ron, who backed up until he was cornered against the window.

"I guess you had a nice time in Hogsmeade, Ron," she said with poisonous sweetness. "Didn't you?"

Ron was considerably taller and heavier, but he might have been confronting an enraged giantess. He glanced to Harry. Harry gestured helplessly.

"Hermione --" Ron said.

"You're such an idiot!" Molten fury glimmered in her eyes. "How can you be such an idiot, Ron Weasley?"

"Dunno!"

"Luna? Of all people, _Luna_?!"

"What's wrong with Luna?"

Harry wanted to creep out the door, but didn't dare move. He could only hope that Dean, Seamus and Neville weren't on their way up the stairs. Ron didn't need any more witnesses to this debacle.

"What's _wrong_ with her?" cried Hermione. "Don't _even_ get me started! But you go with _her_ to Hogsmeade?"

"I had to!" Ron shouted back. "You were all right there having a go at me, making fun, all because I'd said I would ask a girl and then I didn't, so what was I supposed to do? I even asked _you_!"

"You did not!"

"I did! Right there at breakfast, and you yelled at me!"

"That wasn't a _real_ asking!"

"What in the bloody hell does that mean?"

"If you _had_ asked me, asked me _properly_, I would have gone! But you never do! It was the same with the Yule Ball. Did it occur to you, ever, even once, that you could have? No!"

"You were going with Krum!" Ron waved his arms wildly in the air. "You _had_ a date!"

"And you've been bitter about it ever since," Hermione said. "Is that what you're doing? Is that what this is all about? You're using Luna to try and get back at me because you're still upset about Viktor?"

"You're mental!"

"And you're an insensitive clod!"

"What do you care who I go out with, anyway?" Ron demanded. "Who do you think you are, my mother? You pick on me when I _don't_ ask anyone out, and then when I do, you have a fit! So what if I kissed Luna? I kissed her! I enjoyed it! There, are you happy now?"

Suddenly, shockingly, Hermione burst into tears. "No!" she screamed. "No, I'm not!"

"Why not?" Ron screamed back at her, arms flailing, completely out of control.

"Because I'm in love with you, stupid!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs.

She seized Ron by the ears, yanked his head down, and kissed him so hard that Harry heard their teeth clack together.

Klaxons shattered the air, whooping and wailing. Lights flashed. Hermione leapt back from Ron, horrified.

"Oh, no, I forgot!" she squealed, and turned in a whirl of flannel and terrycloth. She bolted out the door.

The commotion cut off as soon as she was over the threshold and out of their room. Harry could hear the sound of her running feet on the spiral stairs. And then, presumably as she reached the bottom, she was greeted by hoots, wolf-whistles, cheers, catcalls and applause from everyone in the common room.

"Looks like there are rules about what girls can do in the boys' dorm after all," Harry said, mostly to himself.

Then, feeling more than a little bit awkward for what he'd just witnessed, but at the same time trying manfully not to go off in gales of uproarious laughter, he looked over at Ron.

Ron was frozen in place. His eyes were open so wide they looked ready to pop out of his head, and his mouth hung open in pure stupefaction.

"You all right, Ron?"

"Hermione kissed me!" Ron said incredulously.

"I know. I saw."

"_Hermione_ kissed me!"

"Yeah."

"Hermione _kissed_ me!"

Harry turned a snicker into a cough. "How was it?"

"Wet," Ron said. "She was crying."

"See? It isn't just me that happens to."

"Harry... Hermione kissed me!"

"Yes, Ron."

"Why'd she do that?"

"Think she fancies you."

"But... but she... but I ..."

"So, tell me again," Harry said teasingly, tapping his forefinger against his chin in an attitude of thoughtfulness. "How come, if you say _I'm_ so good-looking and noble and brave and all that, _you're_ the one with two girls fighting over you?"

Ron blustered, but before he could come up with a reply, more feet clattered on the steps and then Dean, Seamus and Neville piled into the room, all talking at once.

"-- alarm went off --"

"Hermione --"

"-- doing up here?"

To their infinite disappointment, Harry and Ron refused to tell them what had happened. Or, rather, Harry refused and Ron seemed unable to speak, and no amount of cajoling could get them to confess.

Twenty minutes later, Colin Creevey stuck his head in and apologetically asked Ron and Harry to come down to the common room. "It's Professor McGonagall," he said. "She wants to talk to you."

Ron received this news the way one might receive news of a terminal disease. Looking sick, he descended the steps on stilted wooden legs. Harry followed.

The fire was still burning merrily in the hearth, a welcome sight while the rain kept battering against the windows and lightning flickered irregularly over the mountains. The common room was deserted, everyone having either gone to bed, or, more likely, been _sent_ there by Professor McGonagall.

She waited for them near the portrait hole, severe in her square spectacles, hair up in a tight bun and lips pursed into a white line.

"Mr. Potter," she said. "Mr. Weasley."

"Professor," Harry said, nodding.

He elbowed Ron. Ron made a gurgling noise.

"Is there anything either of you wish to tell me?" she asked.

Ron looked like his life was flashing before his eyes. He was probably imagining what his mother would say if he was expelled, if he went from being a prefect to being a rules-breaker like Fred and George after all. Fred and George would salute him for getting kicked out of school for this kind of reason, but Harry doubted that had yet crossed Ron's mind.

"It's discrimination, you know, Professor," Harry said. "If the boys aren't allowed to set foot in the girls' dorms at all, it should be the other way 'round as well. Having a different set of rules pertaining to us is unfair. Blatant discrimination."

"Are you trying to help, Mr. Potter, or are you trying to make matters worse?"

"Only making a point."

"Consider it taken." The hint of a smile twitched, then was gone. "Mr. Weasley?"

"Honestly, Professor," Ron said in a thin, wavering voice, "I didn't know she was going to kiss me. I swear I had no idea."

"I see. And I trust you'll be on your best behavior, and abide by the rules of dormitory conduct?"

Ron bobbed his head.

"Very well. You both may go."

"No... no detention? No docked points for Gryffindor?" Ron asked.

"Do you think you deserve them?"

"No, ma'am," Harry said. "It won't happen again. Will it, Ron?"

"Right," Ron said. "Won't happen again."

"In that case, good night. Oh, and Potter?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"In light of today's grievous events, tomorrow's Quidditch game has been called off. Slytherin House requested some time to mourn this latest loss of a student."

Harry felt guilty all over again for having all but forgotten Devona Stormdark. "Oh. Of course. Sure."

"Please inform your team. Also, Monday's classes are canceled, possibly Tuesday's as well. We'll be having a special assembly tomorrow instead, and Professor Dumbledore will be returning to speak to the students. I've already instructed Mr. Creevey to announce it in the morning, before breakfast."

With a final glance, both stern and bemusedly scandalized, at Ron, McGonagall opened the portrait hole and swept out of Gryffindor tower.

Ron sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. "So now everyone knows."

"Pretty much," Harry said, sitting near him.

"What the hell am I going to do, Harry?"

"About which part?"

"About _any_ part!"

"I guess you'd better talk to Hermione," Harry said.

Ron had an expression suggesting he'd sooner return to Aragog's lair in the heart of the forest. "And say what, exactly?"

"That, I have no bloody idea." Harry shook his head, half-admiringly. "Here I thought I had girl problems."

"Did... did you hear what she said up there? Right before she... she kissed me?"

"Yeah."

"She's joking, isn't she?"

"I don't think so."

"But what about Viktor Krum?"

"Maybe they're just friends."

"She's been writing to him every week!"

"Ron, I don't have the answers. You'll have to ask Hermione."

"Ask her? She'll probably never speak to me again. How'm I going to ask her anything? She hates me!"

"Didn't look that way upstairs."

"And what am I going to say to Luna?"

Harry blew through his teeth, clicked his tongue, shook his head.

"A lot of help you are," Ron said.

"On the bright side," Harry said, "maybe people will think that hickey came from Hermione."

Someone had left a heavy Transfiguration textbook on an end table, and Ron chucked it at Harry's head. "That's not funny!"

"Sorry, Ron."

"No, you aren't. You're not sorry at all."

"I am, really. You and Hermione are both my friends. My best friends. This is... this is a mess, Ron, is what this is."

"Thank you very much, Harry. Like I hadn't figured _that_ out for myself."

They sat up a while longer, Harry hoping that either Ginny would come downstairs to translate and explain everything for them, or that Hermione herself would put in an appearance. Neither did, and eventually the fire started to burn low.

"Come on," Harry said. "Let's get some sleep. We'll figure out what to do in the morning."

He and Ron went up to their room. Though the others must have tried to wait up, still in hopes of hearing some details, both Dean and Seamus were sound asleep. Neville was awake, but all he did was offer Ron a beaming conspiratorial grin. Harry recalled that Neville had done his share of kissing that day at Hogsmeade, too, and was startled to feel a brief pang of annoyance. After all, so had _he_, but nobody was making a big deal about it.

Then, feeling like a heel, he got into bed and drew the draperies shut. He quietly slid open his night table drawer, reached in, and found the mirror. Jane was probably spending the night in the hospital wing and wouldn't have her mirror with her.

He touched the smooth dark glass and thought about her, in the long row of white beds he knew so well from his own many nights under Madame Pomfrey's care.

Finally, he slept.

Continued in Chapter Twenty-One -- Dumbledore's New Army.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	21. Dumbledore's New Army

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-One: Dumbledore's New Army  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Luckily for Ron, Katie Bell decided to get up early Sunday morning and join the Gryffindor Quidditch team for an early pep talk. 

Katie, now in her seventh and final year, had dropped back to the reserves so she could better concentrate on her N.E.W.T.s-- and, Harry suspected, because she missed Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, with whom she'd formed a tight Chaser trio bond. She walked in before any other members of the team, got one look at Ron where he was sitting with Harry by the fire in the common room, and pulled him away into a corner where she showed him a Concealing Charm to hide his hickey.

"Thanks, Katie," Ron said. Overnight, the mark on his neck had not faded. On the contrary, it had deepened and stood out in stark contrast, all the more noticeable since his pimples had finally vanished. He rubbed the spot, which now looked like ordinary skin.

"You're welcome," Katie said, smiling. "Least I could do. And only fitting, since I had to learn that spell because of your brother."

"My brother? Which one?"

"George." Katie's eyes twinkled. "That first year we won the Quidditch Cup, and had that big party, and they smuggled in all the raspberry cordial and we all got so drunk? I ended up making out with him under that table over there, and he tried to hickey his monogram onto my neck."

"Blimey! I never knew that!" Ron gasped.

"The first year?" Harry frowned. "Katie, you were _twelve_!"

"Girls are more precocious than boys."

"Were you and George going out?" Ron asked. "How come no one ever knew?"

"It was just one night at a party, Ron, is all. I don't even know if he remembered the next day, and we never talked about it. Lucky for me, Angelina saw me before anyone else and taught me the charm. I was afraid I'd have to go to Madame Pomfrey and she'd send an owl to my parents. So, where'd you get it?"

"Hogsmeade."

"Not what I meant. Who's the lucky girl?"

Ron's face flamed. "Um ..."

Katie's voice dropped to a cajoling wheedle. "Come on, Ron. Was it Hermione Granger? We all heard the alarms last night and saw her come tearing out of the boys' dorm."

"And what's that all about, anyway?" Harry put in. "We try to set a foot on the staircase over there to the _girls_' dorm and the siren goes off and the steps turn into a slide, but the girls can waltz into our rooms whenever they like?"

"As long as they behave themselves," Katie said. "But the second there's misbehaving... well, you saw for yourself. It was Hermione, then?"

"She didn't do _this_!" Ron said, touching his neck again.

"She must've done something."

"Well, she did kiss him," Harry said.

"Harry!"

"Finally," Katie said. "It's about time."

Ron turned to her, baffled. "About time for what?"

"That she let you know. We're not that close of friends, but I'm not blind. I've been wondering for three years now when she was going to speak up. Let me guess. She found out you'd been with some other girl, knew she'd missed her chance, and did the most drastic thing she could think of to let you know how she feels."

"Girls just... just _understand_ this stuff, don't they?" Harry asked.

"Three years?" Ron stared at Katie.

"Oh, my god!" Katie clapped her hands and rocked on her heels. "You went to Hogsmeade yesterday with Luna Lovegood, didn't you? I thought I saw you together at the Three Broomsticks. That's who gave you the hickey!"

"Hermione's fancied me for three years?"

"Heads up," Harry said loudly. Other people were coming down the stairs.

Moments later, the rest of his team shuffled, yawning, into the common room. Katie retreated to the couch, still regarding Ron with amusement. Harry told everyone to come in and have a seat, then broke the news about the match being cancelled.

"We're going to reschedule, right?" Dennis Creevey asked.

"We have to," Flash Gresham said.

"McGonagall didn't say," Harry said. "Only that the Slytherins were in no shape to play today, not after what happened last night."

"Can you blame them?" Ginny said. "They must be getting pretty upset."

"Not that lot," Dennis said. "They just knew they were going to lose, and they're looking for any excuse to get out of it."

"A girl died," Harry said, his rancor aimed at himself as much as at Dennis. "And before you go saying it, so what if she was in Slytherin? We may not like them, they may be our rivals, but they're still people."

"Sorry, Harry," Dennis mumbled.

"Well, if we're not playing," Flash said, "what _are_ we doing today?"

Harry went to the window. The sky was still a heavy, seething mass of black and grey clouds, though the rain had slowed, the wind had lessened, and there was no more lightning. From Gryffindor tower, he could see the evidence of the storm's ravages everywhere. Broken boughs stripped of leaves littered the edge of the forest. The short, plump shape of Professor Sprout could be seen down by the greenhouses where she taught Herbology, tacking up sheets of canvas over missing panes of glass. Hagrid's pumpkin patch was flooded, the enormous orange gourds sitting like islands in a sea of muddy water. Hagrid himself, wielding a shovel in prodigious strokes, was digging out a trench to let the water drain away.

He looked toward the Quidditch pitch and shocked himself with an oath that made the others huddle around him and press their own faces to the window.

"We wouldn't have been playing today, anyway!" he said, aghast at the sight of the Quidditch field.

Of the six tall goal hoops, three had blown down and one had been reduced to a charred stub, no doubt the result of a lightning strike. The stands had been ruthlessly battered by the wind, some tilting alarmingly. Large chunks of siding that had been peeled off them now lay strewn across the grass. And the grass itself was a swamp.

"Maybe we should get a crew together and fix it up," suggested Ginny. "I'll bet we could round up enough helpers."

"That's a good idea," Harry said.

Gradually, more Gryffindors appeared in the common room. Harry kept an eye out for Hermione, but when it was close to breakfast time and she still hadn't put in an appearance, he took Ginny aside.

"Have you talked to Hermione at all?"

"Not since yesterday," Ginny said. She got an impish look. "I saw her come out of the boys' dorm last night, though, when the alarms sounded. Did she really kiss Ron?"

"Does everyone know?"

"Well, she must have kissed someone," Ginny said. "That's the rule. No kissing, no doing anything naughty with a boy, or else. And if it wasn't Ron, it must've been you. Everyone else was still down here."

"It wasn't me!" Harry said hurriedly.

"I didn't think so."

Her tone was so dismissive that he was taken aback. "Wait... what's that supposed to mean? Why _couldn't_ it have been me?"

"You and Hermione?" Ginny scoffed. "Really, Harry."

He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound totally stupid, and shut it again.

"Besides," Ginny added, "we all know she and Ron have this thing going."

"What thing? Who all knows?"

"All right... _I_ know. I thought it'd get to her, him going out with Luna."

"You tried to set him up for that. What are you playing at, Ginny?"

"He's got to make up his mind, is all."

"Ron? He didn't even know he had to."

"That's my brothers for you," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Except for Bill, I swear, they're all a bunch of dunces when it comes to girls. Hermione's been waiting all this time for him to notice her."

"She has?"

"I've tried to tell her it won't work that way. Not with a Weasley. Do you know, Mum had to practically beat Dad over the head with a broomstick before he got the idea she was interested in him. And then _she_ had to propose. If she'd waited for him to get around to it, they might never have gotten married." Ginny paused, giggled. "Except that they _had_ to get married... so, really, it's Bill who's to blame."

"But what about Hermione? I'm worried that she hasn't come down yet. I don't like to think she's up there, hiding, afraid everyone's going to laugh."

"Which is exactly what she's doing," Ginny said.

"Well, it's not like _I_ can go up there and talk to her," Harry said. "Will you?"

"I tried. Lavender and Parvati said she didn't want to see anyone."

"Could I have your attention, please?" Colin Creevey called, getting up on a tabletop to be seen. He relayed Professor McGonagall's message about the special assembly and Dumbledore's visit.

"It'll be about the Slytherins, I bet," Katie said.

Hermione still had not come down by the time the rest of them were ready to head for breakfast. Harry didn't like leaving her up there alone in her room, probably crying, but there wasn't much else he could do. As everyone else trooped out through the portrait hole, he scribbled a note-- Hermione: everything all right? I'd like to help, if I can-- and signed it and left it on top of her Arithmancy book, which she'd left on a table.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was the same curdled black as the sky outside, clouds scudding by so fast that it made him dizzy to watch. Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table, where what seemed to be an argument was in process between Malfoy and Nigel Nox.

Nox was a seventh-year, tall and slim and handsome in a shifty, distrustworthy way. Harry had read over the complete listing of Death Eaters and their crimes, which had been published in the _Daily Prophet_ following Fudge's death, and a Lethia Nox had been listed among them. Nigel's aunt, she had been a Healer's Assistant at St. Mungo's before it was discovered that her main duty was killing off her Muggle-born patients as well as three wounded Aurors.

"staying here to die!" Nox was saying in a loud, carrying voice as Harry walked in. "And you're mad if you do, too, Malfoy!"

He was dressed in a traveling cloak. His trunk sat expectantly at the end of the long Slytherin table. A wicker cage was strapped to the top of the trunk, and from it came strange, unhealthy rustling, scurrying, and creeping noises.

Harry scanned the table. There, halfway down, listening intently to Nox and Malfoy, was Jane Kirkallen. She had her hair back in its usual ponytail, threaded through the painted wooden snake-ring, and only looked a bit pale and peaky from her near-drowning.

Blaise leaned over and nudged Jane, then indicated Harry. "There he is, Kirkallen. Got anything to say?"

Jane's dark eyes found Harry. "What could I possibly have to say to Harry Potter?" she said. "Thank you for saving my life? Is that what I should say? What do you think, Blaise?"

Harry acted like he hadn't heard and went to the Gryffindor table, trying not to grin at her slyness. She'd just thanked him in front of the whole school, and the rest of them thought she was being snide.

"You were the one who first brought it up!" Nox hollered, towering over Malfoy. "You were the one who said they were murdered, and just last night you said there must be a curse on us! So how can you sit there this morning and tell me that _I'm_ the one being irrational?"

"Mr. Nox!" Snape bore down on him in a frightful billow of robes. "I will _not_ have this disgraceful display. Your parents will be here within the hour to take you home. Until they arrive, _sit_."

"What's that all about?" Harry asked in an undertone as he took a place between Neville and Ron. "What about a curse?"

"It's Malfoy," Neville said, not without a degree of satisfaction. "He's been telling everyone that Nott, Crabbe and Goyle didn't kill themselves at all, but that someone's been picking them off, one by one, because of how their fathers are all Death Eaters."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Harry said.

"Only now it's even better," Ron said. "Devona Stormdark wasn't murdered, so now he's saying it has to be a curse. He's scared silly, the ferret-faced git."

"Nox is, too," Neville said. "So much that he sent an owl to his parents last night begging them to come and fetch him before something terrible happens to him, too."

"Because of his aunt," Harry said.

Neville nodded. "My gran knows their family. My cousin Wilberforce is even married to a Nox, Dulcinia. Some of them are okay. But some, like Lethia, were born bad. She's dead, you know. Mad-Eye Moody killed her, way back when."

"What d'you reckon?" Ron asked Harry. "Think there's a curse?"

"Kind of a strange curse, if it is," Harry said. "What, some sort of 'sins of the father' kind of thing?"

A first-year with hair so red he could have passed for yet another Weasley brother leaned across the table. He'd been listening, and now he pointed out a scrawny boy at the end of the Slytherin table. "That's Edmund Hawke. He's got Death Eaters in his family. He said so in Potions class. His great-uncle went to school with You-Know-Who. Now he's scared, too."

"I hope it _is_ a curse," Neville said viciously. "They deserve everything they get."

"Hang on, Neville," Harry said. "I know you've got reason, but --"

"But nothing! Death Eaters!"

"No, Harry's right," Ron said. "Can't blame a whole family if there's one or two bad eggs. Look at Percy, and how he turned out. I wouldn't like it if someone put a curse on me because Percy went and turned into a prat."

"Percy was _always_ a prat," Ginny said.

"I still hope it's true." Neville's jaw was set, and his clenched fists were set on either side of his plate. "And I hope Draco Malfoy is next."

Harry got a chill. There was no curse, of course not... curses didn't work like that, as far as he knew. It was a string of coincidences, nothing more. But if it _were_... if, somehow, the descendants and relatives of Death Eaters _were_ targeted by some strong and deadly magic...

He looked up to the staff table. Professor Golden was there, seated near the end next to a high chair. Little Arcturus gabbled happily and kicked his bootied feet.

Regulus Black had been a Death Eater. Sirius' brother, Arcturus' uncle.

Nobody else knew, though. No one else knew.

Not that, he realized, it would take a huge leap of logic to figure it out. The constellation names were a hallmark of the Black family. And Kreacher knew. Kreacher could have informed Narcissa, as he'd done once before.

But why would Kreacher do that? Kreacher was delighted about Arcturus, delighted to have a legitimate son of the House of Black to serve again. No, Kreacher wouldn't tell anyone who might pose a danger to that baby. So Arcturus was safe. Nobody could know. Just as nobody else could know about Jane's parentage.

Breakfast arrived, the platters and bowls suddenly filling with porridge, eggs, slabs of ham, blueberry muffins, sausage, toast. The smell of coffee rose from the carafes.

So, if there _was_ a curse... which there _wasn't_... Jane and Arcturus would be perfectly safe.

Except, Harry thought, a triangle of buttered toast poised halfway to his mouth, if there _w_as a curse, magic so subtle and strong and versatile it could make four different Slytherins die in four different ways, it wouldn't matter whether or not anyone knew about Arcturus' uncle and Jane's father. The magic would work no matter what.

"Oh, there's Luna," Ginny said, and Ron dived under the table.

Harry bent down. "You're not fooling anyone."

"Dropped my napkin," Ron said.

"Right."

He emerged, flustered and guilty-looking. Harry surreptitiously scanned Luna, but didn't see any tell-tale bite marks on her. Either Ron hadn't left any, or Katie Bell wasn't the only person who knew the Concealing Charm.

Luna saw Ron, smiled, twiddled her fingers, and went to the Ravenclaw table like it was any other morning. She'd no sooner taken her seat than the post owls came in, heavily burdened with the Sunday edition of the _Daily Prophet._ No other post but the most urgent came on Sundays, so the room was soon clear of wings and feathers again.

ANOTHER DEATH AT HOGWARTS, one of the headlines proclaimed, and the story went on to say how one person had been killed and another injured in the storm that had swept through Hogsmeade the previous evening. No names were mentioned, pending notification of the dead student's next of kin. The story added that it was the latest in a string of school-related tragedies, but refused to speculate on any possible connections.

A sidebar said that the same storm had blasted half the countryside, causing upwards of a quarter million Galleons' worth of damage to wizarding establishments alone. Gringotts insurance goblins had been overwhelmed with claims and complaints.

Neither Hagrid nor Professor Sprout was at breakfast, both presumably still busy with storm damage of their own. The rest of the teachers were subdued, and Snape in particular looked deeply troubled. No wonder... he had lost four students from his House since the start of term, two of them in extremely grisly ways.

Ginny went up and spoke to Professor McGonagall, who nodded and then rose.

"Attention, students," McGonagall said, rapping the podium. "As you know, Professor Dumbledore-- now acting Minister of Magic as well as Headmaster-in-Absentia --"

"Wherever Umbridge is, it's got to be giving her fits," Ron said to Harry. "Remember how she was about Dumbledore wanting to oust Fudge, and replace him? And Fudge must be spinning in his grave."

" return to the school tomorrow," McGonagall went on. "There will be no classes, but we will be having our special assembly at noon sharp, here in the Great Hall. I expect each of you to attend. In the meantime, Miss Weasley has suggested organizing a volunteer crew to tidy up and repair the Quidditch pitch, which as most of you probably know, was badly damaged during yesterday's storm."

Those who _hadn't_ known jumped up in a rush and went to the windows, but from here all they could see was the fact that only two lonely goal hoops remained standing. Two Hufflepuff players and the current Ravenclaw Keeper exclaimed in anguish.

"Needless to say, there will not be a game today," McGonagall said. "I will be speaking with the team captains later to determine whether or not it will be rescheduled. Anyone interested in helping out with the field should gather in the entrance hall after breakfast. Mr. Filch the caretaker will provide the necessary supplies, and Madame Hooch will supervise."

Hermione still hadn't turned up by the time breakfast was done. Harry wanted to send Ginny up to talk to her, but Ginny had been put in charge of what Seamus called the Great Quidditch Clean-Up. He thought about asking Lavender or Parvati, took a second evaluating look at them, and decided against it.

A good crowd collected in the entrance hall. Everyone from the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw teams-- active players and reserves-- plus at least a dozen supporters from each of the three Houses came in, wearing old clothes and over-cloaks.

Even a few Slytherins showed up, sticking to themselves in a sullen group. They were led by Tiberius Flint and Blaise Zabini. Malfoy wasn't among them. Neither was Jane. Neither was Nigel Nox, whose parents pulled up in a thestral-drawn school carriage, loaded his trunk, and whisked him away with barely time for any farewells.

Filch passed out galoshes, sturdy waterproof work gloves, and various tools from the equipment closet. He warned them that each and every single one had better be returned in good condition, but his threatening glower didn't have much force behind it. He'd been a hollow shadow of his former self since Umbridge left. Even Mrs. Norris' whiskers had a disappointed droop to them now.

They went out, nearly fifty of them in all, and met Madame Hooch near the sad remains of the lightning-struck hoop. She was brisk and businesslike, dividing them into groups and assigning them tasks. Hagrid showed up to put his great strength to good use. Even little Professor Flitwick came down and performed the Levitation Charm to raise the three broken hoops back into place. The cries of "_Reparo_!" and "_Scourgify_!" rang in the air as they fixed and cleaned.

By afternoon, the stands were in good shape, the worst of the puddles-- some the size of small lakes-- had been dried up, and only the one burnt hoop could not be mended. Harry, achy from the unexpected hours of hard work, wiped sweat from his forehead and saw Hermione nearby, saying, "_Evanesco_!" as she emptied a pool of muddy rainwater that had collected in a Bludger-sized depression in the turf.

"Hermione," he said. "When did you get here?"

"I've been here a while."

"Have you talked to Ron yet?"

"I have nothing to say to Ron," she said in a clipped manner.

"Listen, Hermione --"

She turned, swiping at her hair, leaving a smear of mud on her brow. "Just stay out of it, Harry. Please."

"I'd like to help."

"I don't need any help."

"You're my friends," he said. "You and Ron both."

"There is no me-and-Ron-both," Hermione said bitterly.

"But --"

"Please, Harry!"

"All right," he said, backing down. "But you've got to work this out."

She would not say another word about it the rest of the day. As for Ron, he seemed to be doing his best to pretend nothing had happened. They both spent the evening pointedly ignoring one another.

Since the Great Quidditch Clean-Up had gone so well, Professor Sprout drafted them to do the same for her greenhouses on Monday. The sky was still leaden, the rain steady as they re-potted plants from flooded pots and beds, mended window panes, and cleaned. They put in another muddy, exhausting morning, and Harry was almost relieved when Hermione mentioned that they'd better quit soon.

"We'll need to be presentable when the Minister arrives," she said.

"The Minister? It's just Dumbledore."

"There was a time, Harry, when you used to care what Dumbledore thought."

Stung, he shut up and finished the section of greenhouse he'd been repairing.

Evidently, Professor Sprout had the same thought as Hermione, because a few minutes later she thanked them for a job well done, and recommended that they head for the castle. A messy line of students wended their way toward the entrance, tired but pleased with themselves. Once the work had been underway, even the Slytherins had shown a surprising inter-House spirit of cooperation.

As they neared the stone steps, someone called out, "Hey! Look! What's that?" and everyone turned.

The clouds over the lake were lit from behind by an orange glow that brightened as they watched. It concentrated into a single brilliant spark, and then the clouds parted as what looked like a large burning wheel spun through them.

"It's a bloody UFO!" Dean Thomas shouted.

The spinning disk of fire whirled nearer and nearer, descending as it did toward the castle. It was flanked by shapes like fiery archangels, gliding on wings of flame.

"It's crashing!" Neville cried.

They scattered away from the door, a few of the girls screaming, as the disk of fire spun in fast and low. Harry could feel the heat baking from it, riffling his hair and drying the mud on his cheeks to a cracked plaster. Steam rose from the damp ground. The grass directly beneath the disk turned crisp and brown, curling in on itself.

The fiery figures were discernible now, and awestruck silence fell over the students as they regarded these startling visitors to Hogwarts.

Each was eight feet tall, humanoid lions or leonine men covered with white-gold fur. Their wings were feathered in flames, and their manes, tail tufts, and eyes also blazed with scarlet-orange heat. Their paw-hands gripped golden spears. They wore gold belts set with rubies, and from the belts hung golden loincloths.

As the disk touched down, it stopped spinning. The air above it was a shimmer of heat-ripples, distorting vision. Then the ripples cleared, and the fire on the disk went out, revealing a slightly curved golden platform upon which stood Albus Dumbledore.

He wore deep crimson robes sewn with astrological and alchemical symbols in silver and gold, a matching crimson velvet cap, and his usual half-moon spectacles. His long silver hair and beard weren't so much as singed from the flames, and he looked around at the gape-mouthed students with Dumbledore's old, familiar, kindly smile.

The lion-men flanked him as he stepped down from the disk, their wings and manes and tails still afire, their eyes like topaz ignited.

No one spoke.

"Hello," Dumbledore said, mildly enough.

The doors burst open, spilling dozens of other people out into the gloomy grey day and the dazzling golden firelight. That light played across their wondering faces in a way that made Harry think of young children seeing their very first Christmas tree.

Professor McGonagall halted at the top of the steps, with Snape at her elbow and the other teachers clustered around them. McGonagall's hand pressed the base of her throat.

"Albus, my goodness!" she breathed.

Hagrid bodily picked up motionless students and set them out of his way like they were pieces on a non-wizard chessboard, forming a path for himself through their ranks. A wild, rapturous grin showed through his bushy dark beard, and his eyes were dancing with feverish curiosity. He marched right toward the nearest of the flame-winged lion men-- even at eight feet tall, the lion-man only came up to Hagrid's collarbone-- and would have reached right out and touched him had Firenze not galloped with a clatter of hooves on stone down the front steps and batted Hagrid's huge hand away.

"I fear they do not care to be touched," Firenze said. "And you would be burned, friend Hagrid."

"Aww," moaned Hagrid, but consented to be towed away, his gaze never leaving the lion-men.

"I told you," Luna Lovegood said clearly. "I told you that the Minister of Magic had his own private army of heliopaths. But you didn't believe me."

Hermione bit her lip so hard Harry saw beadlets of blood well up, and he thought for a moment that she would leap on Luna and they'd have a clawing-and-spitting catfight right there in front of Dumbledore and the entire school. He took her arm in a warning grasp. She shook him off angrily, but managed to refrain from attacking Luna.

Dumbledore turned. "My dear Miss Lovegood," he said gently, "these are not heliopaths. These are aureliphim."

"Heliopaths, aureliphim," Luna said, in a "you say toe-may-toe, I say toe-mah-toe" kind of way. "Spirits of fire. You can't expect the _Quibbler_ to get everything exactly spot-on every single time."

Now Hermione looked like she might throw up. Firenze shifted his weight, clearing his throat, perhaps insulted but too polite to say so in front of such a large audience. Other people whispered and murmured, and eyed Luna with a new quality that was not respect, but was far removed from the pity and contempt with which she was typically viewed.

"If I might present Rayyid," Dumbledore said, with an eloquent gesture toward the tallest of the lion-men. "He is the leader of the new Azkaban guard, some of whom you now see before you."

Another wave of murmurs and whispers went through the crowd. Harry felt a surge of hope. Surely these creatures, all fire and courage and heat, would be more than a match for any icy, soul-sucking dementors... let alone Voldemort's other followers.

"They also, at the insistence of the rest of the Ministry, are my... personal escort," Dumbledore said with a hint of embarrassment and self-effacement.

Harry, who had once witnessed Dumbledore overpower two Aurors, Fudge, Umbridge, and Percy Weasley with a single hex, and who had also witnessed Dumbledore duel Voldemort to a standstill without breaking a sweat, didn't reckon that the aureliphim would be much use in that regard. If there was any threat so dire that Dumbledore couldn't handle it himself, or handle it with the assistance of Fawkes the phoenix, all the aureliphim in the world wouldn't matter. Still, he could see the point of the Ministry. They could not afford to risk Dumbledore, not so close on the heels of losing Fudge.

"Perhaps we should go inside?" suggested McGonagall, glancing edgily at the lowering clouds and the hazy grey line of rain moving toward them across the lake.

Dumbledore agreed, and for a few minutes there was the bustling hubbub of movement as everyone went into the Great Hall. The Great Quidditch-and-Greenhouse Clean-Up Crew mingled with the others, still filthy and disheveled, but no one much seemed to mind.

Two of the aureliphim took positions on either side of the door. Two others moved to the head of the room, standing at opposite ends of the teachers' table. The fifth, Rayyid, stayed impassively beside Dumbledore, arms folded across his furry chest, burning eyes fixed on the assembled hush of students.

"I know the confusion, distress, and grief you must be feeling," Dumbledore said, addressing them from the podium. He inclined his head toward the Slytherin table. "Your House most of all, having lost four of your own. I assure you, everything that can be done for the families of the deceased students, and everything that can be done to ensure your own continued safety and well-being, is being done."

Few of them looked comforted, Malfoy least of all. A solemn mood fell over the other tables as the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws all found themselves in the awkward position-- Harry knew it too well by now-- of feeling sorry for the Slytherins.

"Please remember that every one of the faculty will be more than happy to help you come to terms with these recent events in any way possible," Dumbledore went on. "We shall be holding another memorial service tomorrow in the school chapel. I've spoken to the Stormdark family, who request that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to any of several worthwhile charity causes. Should this be something that interests you, I will be posting the information in the common rooms of each dormitory."

Like a crushing blow, Harry was struck with the knowledge that there had never been a funeral for Sirius. No memorial service, no charitable donations, no headstone, no flowers. His gaze sought out Gwenna Golden, who sat with Arcturus on her lap-- the baby stared in open fascination at the nearest of the aureliphim. With no body, there couldn't very well be a burial, but they had to do something in Sirius' memory.

When the assembly was finished-- Dumbledore having spoken for another twenty minutes before opening the floor to questions and then fielding several about the Ministry, Fudge, the aureliphim, and his eventual return as headmaster -- he raised his hands to quiet the students.

"Now, I will release you to the rest of the day's pursuits," he said. "I hope to see many of you at the memorial service tomorrow evening. And I should request that the following students to report to my office immediately: Jane Kirkallen, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood."

He left the Great Hall by way of the door Harry had once used to meet with the judges of the Triwizard Tournament, his aureliphim in his wake.

"Go on, you four, go on," McGonagall said, making shooing motions. "Lunches will be saved for you. Go on."

Harry and Ron got up. Luna left the Ravenclaw table and ambled dreamily toward the door. Over on the far side of the room, Jane rose from the Slytherin table, pale but calm. As she passed behind Malfoy, Harry saw him tug on her sleeve, then whisper to her. He read the words "I will" on her lips as she replied.

Then the four of them headed for Dumbledore's office.

Continued in Chapter Twenty-Two: The Line of Derwent.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	22. The Line of Derwent

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Line of Derwent  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

_(Additional -- this chapter contains dark/mature subject matter that may be upsetting to some readers)_

Harry couldn't say who was the most uncomfortable as the four of them made their way up the rotating staircases and through the portrait-lined halls. It was a toss-up between himself, Ron and Jane.

Luna, as always, was unperturbed. She ambled along, gazing idly up at the lofty rafters far above, somehow managing never to stumble over her own feet as she went.

"Dumbledore knows everything that goes on around here, doesn't he?" Ron asked anxiously. "That's what you've always said, Harry. He knows everything."

It was this that had tied a knot in Harry's stomach. On several occasions over his years at Hogwarts, he'd gotten the very strong idea that Dumbledore did, in fact, know what was transpiring within its walls. That Dumbledore had, for instance, in some indulgent spirit of letting Harry test and prove himself, sat back and watched throughout the business with Professor Quirrell-- that had to have been a test, for why else would something so important as the Sorcerer's Stone been purposefully put at the end of a series of tasks designed to challenge? If Dumbledore had really wanted to keep the Sorcerer's Stone out of hostile hands, he could simply have locked it away within his own quarters, or sealed it within a stone wall, and no one would ever have been the wiser.

Other times, though...

"Does he?" asked Jane, dread and skepticism warring in her eyes.

"I don't know," Harry said. "Sometimes it seems that way. But... well, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, remember, or when Barty Crouch replaced the real Mad-Eye Moody... if he had known about it, he wouldn't have let all that happen, would he? Not when peoples' lives were in danger."

"Omniscient and omnipotent aren't the same thing," Luna remarked.

"Aren't you worried?" Ron turned to her. "Not the least little bit?"

"Why should I be? I haven't done anything wrong. Do you have a guilty conscience, Ronald?"

Ron flushed, and Harry knew that the row-- and the kiss-- with Hermione were uppermost in his mind.

As for Harry himself, this was the first time he'd been summoned to Dumbledore's presence since the end of last term. He had far more to contemplate than an illicit kiss. When he had last been in Dumbledore's office, they had exchanged words. Heated words, on Harry's part. A full year of neglect, of questions without answers, of being snubbed and treated like a helpless, foolish child... and then to have to stand there and listen as Dumbledore criticized Sirius, defended _Snape_...

It still made his blood boil.

Dumbledore had not wanted Voldemort to get the idea that he and Harry were friends, were anything other than student and benevolent but distant headmaster. And so he had ignored Harry all year... but Voldemort had known anyway... and the most bitterly ironic part of it was that by the end, their close relationship had been gone anyway. Gone, buried beneath built-up layers of anger and distrust.

Now here he was again. Dumbledore had barely said a word to him in the weeks since school started. Whether he was still trying to maintain that appearance of distance-- an illusion that had become, as far as Harry was concerned, all too real-- or whether his feelings had been hurt and he was waiting for _Harry_ to approach him and apologize...

Harry didn't know. And found, with a dismal sinking feeling, that he didn't much care.

He had trusted Dumbledore, loved him like the grandfather he'd never known, and Dumbledore had pushed him away. Claiming that it was for Harry's own good. Claiming he didn't want to burden Harry with even more responsibilities. Everything that Dumbledore had done to make Harry's life bleak, desolate and miserable was for Harry's own-damned-good.

Sending him to live with the Dursleys. Forcing him to return there year after year. Making Ron prefect instead, without a word of explanation. Ignoring Harry all of last year, making him feel like he had done something wrong. Throwing him into Occlumency lessons with Snape, while knowing full well that Snape hated Harry with every fiber of his being.

And there was the way Dumbledore had treated Sirius, too. Harry had wondered, in his darker moods, whether Dumbledore had been trying to punish Sirius for replacing him in Harry's affections. Keeping Sirius confined to Grimmauld Place, _knowing_ that inaction would drive him crazy... blaming Sirius for what Kreacher had done. Lording it over them, and always... always... for their own good.

The four of them came to the stone gargoyle guarding the way to Dumbledore's quarters. Harry, Ron and Luna hastily cast spells on themselves and their clothes to clean up the worst of the remnants of the greenhouse chores and repairs.

Jane hung back, looking like she was steeling herself for the worst. "I've never been sent to the headmaster's office before," she said.

"For a Slytherin, you're not much of a troublemaker, are you?" Ron asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe I just don't get caught."

"Maybe you're just bluffing," Luna said. "I know you only pretend to cheat in Ancient Runes."

"Pepper Imp," Harry quickly said to the gargoyle, before Jane could respond.

At the password, the gargoyle slid out of the way, revealing a spiral stair revolving smoothly upward and upward like a barber's pole. Harry stepped onto it and was carried up and around. Ron, Luna and finally Jane followed.

Dumbledore's office was a place of leather-bound tomes resting in shelves and mysterious silver instruments gleaming on tables. Portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses snoozed on the walls-- or so they appeared; Harry knew now that they were keenly attentive to what went on in here most of the time, and even now he spotted a few eyeing the students surreptitiously from beneath lowered, shamming eyelids. On his perch, Fawkes the phoenix crooned at them, his plumage brilliant red.

The room was warmer than usual thanks to the presence of Rayyid. Harry did not know where the other aureliphim had gone, but their leader stood silently at the corner of Dumbledore's desk, arms crossed, the golden spear held slantways across his body.

"Ah," Dumbledore said from his large chair behind the desk. He waved his wand "Do be seated, please."

Four chairs materialized in the middle of the room. Luna sat down first, head cocked in polite alertness. Harry, Ron and Jane sat as well, their movements stiff with apprehension.

Harry did not look at Dumbledore. He couldn't bring himself to. It was not because he feared he might feel the cold, coiling urge to attack. That had been Voldemort working through him. No, it was because Harry could hardly stand to look at that lined, careworn face. He didn't trust himself not to yell.

Dumbledore folded his long-fingered hands on the surface of the desk and leaned forward, examining each of them in turn. When his gaze reached Harry, Harry stared resolutely at the floor.

"I'd like to know, in your own words, what happened Saturday evening in Hogsmeade," he said. "Miss Kirkallen?"

Haltingly, Jane told him that she and Devona had been taking refuge under the dead oak tree when lightning struck and knocked them down the hill, into the brook. She sounded convincing, and if Harry hadn't known otherwise, he would never have guessed that she was editing the truth.

He risked a glance at Dumbledore, and saw Dumbledore's light blue eyes focused seriously on Jane. Above and behind him, on the wall, the portrait of Dilys Derwent, a witch with long silver ringlets, peered quizzically at Jane as if trying to think of where she'd seen her before. Harry could see the resemblance... Jane and Dilys had the same heart-shaped face, satiny skin, and rosy lips.

"Mr. Weasley? Miss Lovegood?" Dumbledore said when Jane fell silent.

"We were in a gazebo at Four Founders Park," Ron said, sounding like he was confessing to the brutal kicking-to-death of a litter of cute little puppies. "Hogsbrook runs right by. We saw and heard the lightning hit the tree, but didn't think anything of it. Not until a few minutes later, when we heard Harry yelling."

"I knew a path that came out by Hogsbrook," Luna said, "and I thought we could see better from there. When we came out of the woods, we saw Harry. He was racing along the stream bank, shouting and waving his arms, and we realized someone must have fallen in. The water was very high."

Ron took over. "By the time we got down there, Harry was out in the water up to his waist, trying to reach something. I waded in, and Luna tied her belt to a tree to give us an anchor."

"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore inquired. His eyes shifted to Harry.

The resentful anger simmered anew. Dumbledore already _knew_... Harry was sure of it. Why was he making them go through this charade? Did he _enjoy_ it? Seeing if they would lie to the headmaster and stick to their stories?

"I'd seen someone fall into the brook," he said, meeting Dumbledore's gaze steadily and unflinchingly. "I ran after, jumped in, and hauled her out. It was Jane."

"She nearly drowned," Luna said. "But Ron saved her life."

Ron and Harry, one startled and one nettled, looked at her. Harry was on the verge of saying, "Excuse me? _Who_ saved her life?" but contained himself. That was exactly the sort of glory-hound heroism Hermione always accused him of. And Ron _had_ saved Jane with the Awakening Charm.

"It was Harry's idea," Ron said.

"And what about Miss Stormdark?" asked Dumbledore.

"There wasn't a chance," Harry said. "I only barely saw a pale thing that turned out to be Jane's hand."

"We would have helped her if we could," Luna said.

From another wall, Phineas Nigellus watched proceedings, the corner of his mouth tucked in a cruelly amused smile. He, of course, would know lies and omission when he heard them, the crafty old snake.

"I'm sure that all of you did everything that you could, under the circumstances," Dumbledore said. "Thank you."

"Is that it, then?" Ron gulped, like he couldn't quite believe it. "We're done? We can go?"

"Are you in a rush to leave, Mr. Weasley?" Dumbledore's eyes crinkled. "I rather thought we might have some tea first."

"Excuse me, Dumbledore," Dilys Derwent spoke up. "Might I interject something of a more personal nature?"

"By all means, Dilys."

Jane jumped, and looked up sharply. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, my dear," Dilys said, gazing fondly at her. "My dear, my dear, can it be true? Look at you."

"Acquaintance of yours, Dilys?" Phineas asked.

"A many-times-great-granddaughter, if I'm not mistaken," Dilys said. "Aren't you, dear?"

"My ..." Jane swallowed. "My mother... was... Amaryllis Derwent."

"Ammy!" Dilys cried. "Oh, she was so lovely. So bright, and sweet, and talented. You favor her, you know. I was so sorry to hear what happened."

"What did happen?" Ron hissed in Harry's ear.

Harry shushed him.

Then Dilys took in the rest of Jane's uniform, and the painted wooden snake-shaped ring through which her ponytail was threaded. "Oh... and you're in Slytherin, too," she said, her effervescent tone going slightly flat. "How... nice."

Phineas prominently adjusted his green-and-silver cravat. "Was that an editorial comment, Dilys?"

"No, not at all." Dilys smiled down at Jane. "You'll have to come back sometime so we can have a good long chat. I want to hear all about you. If it's all right with Dumbledore, of course."

"Absolutely," Dumbledore said. "Any time at all."

"That's very kind," Jane said automatically, the good-mannered vicar's daughter once more.

"Now, I believe I've taken up too much of your time already," Dumbledore said, "and I pray you'll forgive me if I take up a bit more. Mr. Potter, Miss Kirkallen, if you could step into the hall for a few moments, I should like to speak to Mr. Weasley and Miss Lovegood alone. And then, when I've finished with them --"

Here, Ron looked stricken.

"I'd like to speak to you two, as well," finished Dumbledore.

"Yes, Headmaster," Harry said, rising from his chair.

A door, not the one they'd come in through, swung open. On the other side was a curving hallway lined on its outer wall with leaded-glass windows in diamond panes, through which much of the castle could be seen. The inner wall was covered with a heavy woven tapestry. Just at the point where the hall curved out of sight was a large oaken bench supported on the backs of two marble griffins.

Harry and Jane went into the hall, and the door closed behind them.

The tapestry showed Hogwarts as it had been in its earliest years, before centuries of expansions and additions. Snow-covered mountains reared behind the castle, against a blue sky where flocks of hippogriffs soared. There was no Quidditch pitch, no Hagrid's hut, no greenhouses, no north and west wings.

A pair of candles in golden sconces were on the wall, but they were unlit, and the stormy daylight filtering through the leaded glass left the hallway in a perpetual cool twilight.

Jane moved past Harry, nearly as pale as a ghost in that strange misty-grey light, and stood at a window with her hands on the deep stone sill, gazing out.

"Are you all right?" he asked, coming up beside her.

She didn't reply.

"Wasn't that bad," he said joshingly. "I've had worse trips to Dumbledore's office. Nearly been expelled and arrested there a few times."

"It wasn't that," she said.

"Dilys Derwent?" When she nodded, Harry said, "Hadn't you ever seen her before?"

"Only in _The Book of Derwent_," Jane said. "A photograph of a portrait, you know, so it's not the same. Not the same as actually _speaking_ to her."

"I think she liked you."

"No, she didn't."

"What, because you're in Slytherin?"

"Partly. And she knows... she must... about my mother. And... my... my... _father_." She spat the word out as if it tasted foul. "That means Dumbledore will, if he doesn't already."

"I hate to say it, Jane, but he probably already does."

"That I'm the child of a Death Eater," she said bitterly.

"It's not like he'd expel you for it," Harry said. "He would have known from the start, most likely, and he still brought you to Hogwarts."

"Harry, you don't understand."

"I'm trying to." He paused, then plunged. "Jane... who _is_ your father, then, if it's such a big deal?"

He thought that he was braced for the worst, anticipating her to say that Snape, or even Voldemort himself, was her father. What she did say threw him for a loop, like a rogue Bludger streaking by so close it caused him to barrel roll on his broom.

"I don't know."

"Excuse me?" Harry said.

Her hands, palms-down on the windowsill, curled enough to dig at the stones with her nails. "I don't know who my father is, Harry. I've never known."

"What? I... how can you not... what?"

"I told you that my mother, Amaryllis, was the last of the line of Derwent," she said. "The last of a pureblood wizarding family with a history dating back to the Middle Ages, if not the Ice Age."

"Yes, I know."

"But my mother, the last of the line, rejected witchcraft and wizardry. She gave up her wand, she swore off spellcasting forever, and she decided to forsake this entire world ..." Jane looked out at Hogwarts, the grounds, the lake, the forest. "And live as a Muggle."

"I'd never do it myself, but fair enough," Harry said.

"Fair enough for you," Jane said. "Not right at all, in the eyes of some. You know what they're like, Harry, some of those old noble pureblood families. How superior they are, how arrogant. A lot of them were drawn to the Dark Lord because of his desire to cleanse and purify the wizarding bloodlines."

"Which is particularly ironic, given that Voldemort's dad was a Muggle," Harry said.

"But you see... it wasn't just about stopping wizards and Muggles from marrying. It was about making sure that the purebloods stayed that way. Powerful, and strong. They weren't about to let the Derwent line die out. They needed my mother to keep it going."

"They, the other old families?"

"They, the Death Eaters," Jane said hollowly. She was still gazing out the window, her nails scraping the stone. "Several of them decided that my mother was not going to be allowed to dilute the Derwent blood by having half-Muggle children. They sought her out... and they took her. They raped her."

"Oh, no," Harry said.

Jane's fingernails scraped gratingly over the stone. "One after another. Some of them two or three times. Laughing while they did it. Wearing masks, so she never saw their faces, but she saw the Dark Mark on their flesh. And even that wasn't the worst of it. Do you want to hear the worst of it?"

"No," Harry said, but she went on as if she hadn't heard.

"It wasn't enough for them to hold her down, or beat her, or hurt her. They had to utterly violate and humiliate her. They used the Imperius Curse. They made her... _do_ things. Horrible, vile, abominable things."

He felt sick. "Jane ..."

"They used the Imperius Curse on her and they raped her. Half a dozen of them or more. Over and over. And when it was done, she was pregnant. With me."

"Jane, stop. You don't have to put yourself through this."

"But you have to understand!" She turned toward him, her face a tormented mask. "They told her that they'd be back when the baby was born. That they would take it away from her, to raise in the service of the Dark Lord. That was to be her final punishment for daring to think she could walk away, her, a pureblood, last of the Derwent line. Then they'd kill her, before she could taint herself by having other children, half-blood children with some Muggle."

He hadn't thought that there could be anything in all the world to give him yet more reason to hate the Death Eaters, but here it was. Jane's words evoked stark, terrible images in his mind. He could see them, half a dozen Death Eaters, their faces hooded... could hear their jeers and laughter as they subjected a helpless woman to their malevolent wills.

"How do you know all this?" he asked.

"She told me. She told me everything. Even that she'd considered abortion. Do you have any idea what it's like to hear that from your own mother? That she knew she was carrying a child of evil, and the only reason she didn't have it cut from her belly was because she couldn't bring herself to do it? Because she believed that it was wrong, wrong no matter what? Do you have any idea?"

"I can't imagine," Harry said.

He thought of his own parents, whom he had lost when he was so young. The Dursleys didn't want him, never had and never would... but he at least had the comfort of knowing that his mother and father _had_ loved him, _had_ wanted him. Jane had been unwanted, unloved, perhaps even hated since the violent hell of her conception.

"So she carried the baby to term," Jane said. "Knowing that they would come and take it away, and raise it to be one of them... raise her baby to become everything she had always despised the most."

"But they didn't," Harry said.

"Do you know why? Do you know the only reason why they didn't?"

He shook his head.

Jane reached up, brushed aside his hair, and traced with her fingertip the jagged line of his scar. "Two nights before I was born, the Dark Lord walked into your house... and never walked out."

A shivering thrill, as much from her touch as her words, shot through him. He briefly closed his eyes, feeling her stroke his forehead, then took her hand and clasped it in his, against his chest.

"You're giving me too much credit, Jane. I didn't _do_ anything. It was my mother, giving her life to save mine --"

"It threw all their plans into disarray," Jane said. "In the aftermath, all of his Death Eaters were on the run from the Ministry, or scrambling to save their own skins, or being killed by Aurors, or being sent to Azkaban. None of them cared about loose ends. So that's what I was. A loose end. A leftover."

"I'm glad they couldn't get to you," Harry said.

"I think for a while, she forgot. She let herself, or made herself, forget. She convinced herself that I was normal. She told me stories about her own previous life, as if they were... fairy tales, made-up stuff. My mother the witch, and we would laugh about it and she'd pretend she was going to cast a spell on me if I didn't clean my room, or eat my vegetables. But when she started seeing the magic in me, when I started being able to do things that no Muggle child should do... you know what I mean ..."

"I know what you mean."

"Then, she couldn't hide from it any longer. It all came back to her. Everything she'd tried to forget, or lie to herself about, for all those years. I was eight. She took me into her sitting room and told me the whole story."

"When you were _eight_?" He could scarcely bear hearing it at sixteen, and now it was a younger Jane he saw in his mind's eye, a little girl listening to her mother describe such terrible, terrible acts.

"She wept," Jane said. "Like her soul was shattering. I'd known that the vicar wasn't really my father, and I'd spun a fancy of some tragic handsome lost love... and then she told me the truth."

"How could she say that to a child?"

"It wasn't that she was trying to be cruel," Jane said. "She was broken, Harry. I was a witch after all, and she couldn't handle it. There was no fooling herself anymore. I was the living, breathing, magical reminder of what they had done to her. So she killed herself. But if you want the reality of it, _I_ killed her!"

"No!" He gripped her shoulders. "Don't say that. If anyone's to blame, it's them, the Death Eaters. Not you. You're as innocent as she was, as much a victim-- if not more! It isn't your fault. That would be like me saying that I killed my parents, because I was the reason Voldemort came after them, because of that damned prophecy. We didn't have any control over it, Jane. We were kids."

"All right," she said, defeated, trying to pull away from him. "They killed her. It just took them eight extra years to do it."

Harry loosened his grasp enough so as not to hurt her, but not enough to let her go. "I'm glad you told me all this."

"Are you?"

"Not really," he admitted. "It's awful, and I hate that you've had to go through it alone. I wish there was something I could do to help. But all I can do is listen, and... and sympathize. I know what it's like, trying to carry that kind of anger, and guilt, and loneliness. I know what it's like, thinking nobody else could possibly understand."

"How can you be so... good?" she asked tremulously. "How can you still stand there like you're my friend, after everything I've just told you?"

"I am your friend," Harry said. "I want to be."

"But now you know what I am."

"I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me, sure," he said. "A little, maybe. Knowing... or, not knowing... who your father was. But, Jane, that doesn't change who _you_ are."

She looked away, unconvinced. He knew she must have spent so many years believing the worst about herself that he wasn't going to change her mind in a few minutes. Some things were too deeply ingrained.

"Hey," he said. "Give it a chance, all right?"

"Harry ..."

"What?"

"I... you don't... you wouldn't say that if ..."

"Stop trying to talk me out of liking you, would you?" he said with an exasperated grin. "It won't work."

"But I --"

"I said, stop it. Or do I have to kiss you again to shut you up?" He couldn't believe he'd said it, and by the way her eyes got big, neither could Jane.

"Harry, you --"

"I warned you." He pulled her toward him.

She put her palms against his chest, holding him at arm's length, and threw a panicked look toward the door they'd come through. "Are you out of your mind? That's Dumbledore's office right there!"

"I know."

"We'll get in trouble!"

"How many points do you think he'll take away?"

"Fifty at least!"

Harry tipped his head to the side and pretended to mull it over. "Hmm. Fifty points. You know... I think it's worth it."

"It's really wrong, you know."

"Don't start that again."

"I must be crazy," Jane murmured. "I must simply be crazy." She let her arms fall to her sides and looked up at him.

Harry hadn't quite expected her to give in. When he'd kissed her before, he had done so on the spur of the moment, caught up in the intensity of the rescue and all. Here and now, with her watching him expectantly, he felt like he was poised on the edge of a precipice.

"I must be crazy, too," he said.

"Whew," Jane exhaled, and smiled a bit. "I thought for a moment you actually were going to --"

He slid his hand to curl around the nape of her neck, beneath her ponytail, and leaned down to press his lips against hers. He lingered there for a few seconds that seemed at once to go on forever and be over too soon, then straightened up again.

"Oh," Jane said weakly. She went to the window again, leaning on the sill as if dizzied, and brought shaking fingers to her brow.

Stepping beside her-- and belatedly hoping that no one had been happening to look up at this particular window that particular instant, but it was too late if anyone had-- Harry rested his arm around her shoulders.

They stood like that in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts, and then the door from Dumbledore's office opened with a click.

Jane whirled and sprang away from Harry. He turned around more slowly and saw Dumbledore there, looking at them with an unreadable expression.

Defiantly, deliberately, Harry moved near Jane and put his arm around her again. He lifted his chin toward Dumbledore as if daring him to say anything. Daring him to object, or condemn.

Besides, Dumbledore had to know something of this already. He must have received full reports from Tonks, Moody, Lupin and Mrs. Weasley. It couldn't possibly come as a surprise to him.

"Won't you come back in?" Dumbledore invited placidly. "I've finished my chat with Mr. Weasley and Miss Lovegood."

Harry lowered his arm. Jane, who had nearly fainted on the spot, looked at him as if to ask what in the hell he thought he'd been doing, was he _trying_ to get them expelled?

Ron and Luna were indeed gone, and so were two of the chairs that Dumbledore had conjured. The witches and wizards on the wall were for the most part still acting as if they napped, though Dilys Derwent and Phineas Nigellus had forsaken the pretense and observed with interest as Harry and Jane came in.

"Tea?" Dumbledore asked, indicating a china teapot shaped like a fat little dragon, which sat chuffing steam contentedly to itself.

"No, thank you," Harry said, and Jane also demurred.

Dumbledore sighed and studied them. "Miss Kirkallen, how are you feeling after your ordeal?"

"Very well, thank you, Headmaster."

"Madame Pomfrey tells me that in addition to a close call with drowning and the chill, you were bruised about the neck."

Harry's thoughts were a jumble. Ron's hickey... and did Dumbledore think something similar had gone on with Jane? But of course it hadn't... Devona Stormdark had been trying to throttle her and hex her at the same time before he'd disarmed them... but he couldn't _say_ that...

"I think my robes must've wrapped 'round my neck while I was struggling to swim," Jane said. "I'm afraid that I don't really remember much of what happened once I was in the water."

"Well, no harm done, then," Dumbledore said, smiling benignly. Then the smile vanished, and he laid his hands flat on the desk and regarded them with solemn attention. "Is there anything else either of you would like to tell me?"

"No, Headmaster," Harry said, looking squarely back at him.

Jane dropped her gaze. "No," she said in a low voice.

"Hogwarts has seen many difficult years lately," Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid that this one looks to be yet another. I'm aware of certain rumors circulating the school, and I'd like to assure you both that I, for one, put little stock in them."

Harry realized he was talking about Malfoy's wild claims of conspiracies, faked suicides, and curses. Almost on the heels of that came the realization that of course, Dumbledore _did_ know about Jane's parents, and knew that Harry knew. Was he... what? Trying to assure Harry that Jane would be safe, because there was no curse? So that even if she was the daughter of a Death Eater, she was not in any danger?

"Still," Dumbledore went on, "it lightens my heart to know that you students are looking out for one another, and not letting House rivalries get in the way. I'm sure you will continue to do so."

"Yes, sir," Harry said.

"I regret that my duties currently must keep me so much away from Hogwarts." Dumbledore looked and sounded weary. "Were there any other way, I would take it, but at this time I cannot, no matter how I might like to, put the welfare of this school and its students ahead of that of the entire wizarding world. Not when I know that, while here, you are for the most part well-defended from any external threats."

It made Harry uneasy to hear Dumbledore apologetic, justifying his absence. He wasn't sure how to react. "Yes, sir," he said again.

Rayyid stirred and fixed his burning topaz eyes on Dumbledore. His posture was impatient.

"Ah, yes," sighed Dumbledore. "I must be on my way. A quick return to the Ministry tonight, but I will be back for the memorial service. If, that is, you're both quite sure you have nothing more you need to tell me?"

Harry shook his head, and Jane shook hers.

"Then farewell, and good day to you both."

As they left, Harry heard Dilys Derwent's voice. "She does look _so_ like Ammy... but I can't help seeing what must be her father's legacy in her, too. It's something especially about her --"

The door closed, cutting her off. Ahead of them, the spiral staircase revolved downward.

He glanced sideways.

Jane's expression was taut, and he knew that she had heard it, too.

Continued in Chapter Twenty-Three: Hermione's Heartbreak.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	23. Hermione's Heartbreak

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Three: Hermione's Heartbreak  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

They parted ways at the bottom of the stairs, as the gargoyle guardian of Dumbledore's office slid closed behind them. Neither spoke, and only partly because they were now back in the public areas of Hogwarts and had to behave. 

Harry had no idea what to say. He sympathized with Jane... for so many years, he had thrilled to people telling him how much he looked like his father, except for having his mother's eyes. Jane was almost the reverse-- her mother's image, except for...

Except for what?

He shouldn't even be letting it prey on his mind, and yet it did. The mystery of the identity of Jane's father nagged at him. He wanted to know. More, he wanted to help _her_ find out, for her own sake. It had to be maddening, not knowing-- and a thousand times worse than maddening to know that it could be any of a half-dozen or more men, all of whom were the among vilest of evil Dark wizards the world had to offer.

As he walked back toward Gryffindor tower, expecting to see Ron ahead of him, he pondered possibilities. What was it about Jane that Dilys Derwent had seen as foreign? As her father's mark? Was it her hair? Dark hair... which would mean, by likely process of elimination, her father couldn't have been someone like Lucius Malfoy.

Dark hair like... eew, like Snape?

His stomach gave a bubbly churn at that. Of all the Death Eaters past and present, dead or alive, the one he would want _least_ to be Jane's father would be Snape. Horrible as her circumstances were, that'd be the worst. The absolute worst.

Her eyes, maybe? Dark eyes, too. Not the merry sunflower-blue of Dilys Derwent. Not the pale silvery-grey of the Malfoys. Snape had eyes as black and sharp as chips of obsidian.

And then there was Mulciber, whom Karkaroff had ratted out to the Wizengamot as having used the Imperius Curse all the time... Harry had seen Karkaroff's confession in Dumbledore's Pensieve...

It was useless. He knew he was never going to be able to guess. And would it be any better if he did? If she found out? What then? As long as it was a mystery, she could let herself hope that maybe-- as Death Eater rapists went-- her father hadn't been _that_ bad... but if she knew his identity, she'd be able to review his crimes in excruciating detail. And that might be more pain than she could handle.

Ron was sitting halfway down a flight of stairs, beneath a large portrait of harlequins and tumbling dwarfs, looking morose. He grinned dourly as Harry approached.

"Well?" Harry asked, sitting beside him. "How'd it go?"

"With Dumbledore or with Luna?"

"Both. Or either. Dealer's choice."

"Not so bad with Dumbledore," Ron said. "Offered us tea, chatted about the weather, idly mentioned appropriate behavior in and out of school. I reckon he saw right through the Concealing Charm."

"Reckon so," agreed Harry.

"But nothing about sending owls to our parents or anything, thankfully," Ron said. "Could you hear Mum? I'd probably get a Howler."

"Did he say anything about what happened with Hermione?"

Ron winced as if he'd just as soon have forgotten the entire incident. "No, but he implied it. You know how he is, Dumbledore. Good at implying stuff. What I want to know is how he keeps track of what's going on when he's supposed to be running the Ministry?"

"Good question."

"McGonagall must send him daily reports, sure, but ..." Ron slowly shook his head. "Blimey. I wouldn't want _his_ job."

"So what about Luna, then?" asked Harry. "You sounded like, if it went okay with Dumbledore, it wasn't so okay with her."

"She thinks we're dating!" Ron burst out.

Harry gave him the eyebrow. "Can't imagine where she'd get that idea."

"Making plans for when we can see each other again, talking about me like I'm her... her _boyfriend_!" Ron could barely bring the word out. "Like it's assumed next Hogsmeade weekend I'll be going with her, and she even said something about visiting herfamily over the holidays! Harry, it's bloody October and she's planning for me to meet her dad come Christmas!"

"Better get her a good present, then."

"You're not helping!"

"Sorry." He put on his most somber, attentive face. "What are you going to do?"

"Dunno what I _can_ do." Ron sighed, only it was more like a groan. "It was just one date, and an accidental one at that!"

"Don't you like her?"

"Well, yeah, I like her well enough, I guess ..."

"You must, if you made out with her."

He winced again. "Thanks for reminding me."

It was strange how, with everything so dark in his mind, talking to Ron-- teasing Ron like this-- could help to cheer him up. Harry had been jolted by what Jane told him... he'd thought that murder was the lowest depth to which Voldemort's people could sink, but there were lower depths. What they had done to Amaryllis... what they would have done to Jane...

And it unnerved him to think that they'd had a tenuous but powerful connection since he was only a year old and she hadn't even been born. What did that mean? Anything? Nothing? There were plenty of people whose lives had been altered because of what had happened when Voldemort came to his parents' house, and thinking about all of those connections made him edgy.

"Harry?"

He looked around. "Huh?"

"You came over all funny there for a second," Ron said. "You don't look good."

"I... don't feel so good, really."

Had he just been thinking how teasing Ron could cheer him up? Maybe so... but the minute he started letting himself think again about poor Amaryllis Derwent, and what she must have suffered...

Harry knew from personal experience what it was like to be under the Imperius Curse. Barty Crouch Jr., masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody, had cast it on their entire Defense Against the Dark Arts class during Harry's fourth year. Only Harry had been able to shake off the controlling effects, but he remembered it vividly.

At first it hadn't been so bad, feeling like he was absolved of any and all responsibility for his actions. But as it had gone on, he had developed a sense of terrifying powerlessness, helplessness... his mind screaming in futile protest as his body acted independently, the slave of another's sinister will.

"And for her ..." he muttered.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Nothing... sorry."

"You're really not all right, are you?" Ron looked him over, concerned. "What's the matter? Did Dumbledore say something to you? _You're_ not in trouble, are you?"

"No," Harry said.

"Did he know about ..." Ron swept a quick look around the hallway to be sure they were alone, shot a distrustful glance up at the pantomiming harlequins and tumbling dwarfs  all of whom were far too engrossed in their activities to be paying any attention  and whispered. "About Jane?"

"If he didn't to start with, he does now," Harry said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I had my arm around her when he came out to the hallway to fetch us."

"You never!" Ron said with grudging admiration. "Outside Dumbledore's own office? And he saw you?"

"Yeah," Harry said.

"What'd he say?"

"He didn't say anything," Harry said.

"Oh, that's rich," groused Ron. "I get the big lecture, and you're dating a Slytherin and not one word?"

"Big lecture? You said he implied! Besides, I didn't come back to school with big hickeys on my neck, and set off the dormitory alarms with _another_ girl later that same damned night!"

"_She_ set off the alarms! _She_ kissed _me_! I didn't have anything to do with that and you were there to see for yourself! And what are you shouting at me for?"

Harry had been shouting, he realized. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"It's making you insane, this is," Ron said, not without pity. "Trying to see her without anybody else catching on."

"It's not just that," Harry said.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't told Ron or Hermione about Jane's parents. True, there hadn't really been an opportunity... it had only been two days, after all, though it seemed like much longer, that he'd learned her father had been a Death Eater. And too much had happened since.

Besides, he didn't think it was any of their business. It wasn't even _his_ business, in truth, but just because Ron and Hermione were his best friends, they didn't have to know every single thing that he found out. He'd kept loads of stuff from them over the years, for various reasons.

Sometimes he'd eventually cleared the air-- what he'd done with his Triwizard winnings, what really went on in Umbridge's detentions-- or they had found out through other means, like with the Longbottoms. But some things, he still kept to himself. What he'd seen in Snape's memory, for example. The words of the prophecy that had gotten him into all this in the first place, for instance.

Jane had trusted him, and he wasn't about to repay her trust by blabbing her tragic and sordid family history around, not even to his two closest friends. It had to have been hard for her, a Slytherin, to open up to anyone. Especially to a Gryffindor. Especially to him. He didn't know why she'd done it. That tenuous bond? Or was it simply that she knew she could trust him above anyone in her own House, because of the very qualities that had put him in Gryffindor in the first place?

Ron was saying something, and Harry hadn't been listening.

"What?"

"I asked what Dumbledore _did_ say to you, if he wasn't telling you off for inappropriate behavior, and hinting that you should see Madame Pomfrey if you had any 'health concerns or questions,'" Ron said, making quote marks with his fingers the way he'd often seen Dean and Hermione do.

"He said that?"

"It was only kissing," Ron said in a grumbling tone. He reddened. "Mostly."

"Remember, Ron, I really don't want to know," Harry said quickly. "Anyway, I think Dumbledore mostly wanted to be sure we were all right. It was kind of scary out there in Hogsbrook. You know I've never been a good swimmer."

"So he didn't say anything to you about you and Jane?" Ron persisted. "He wasn't surprised?"

"How could he be, when he'd probably heard about it from Tonks and your mum?"

"Oh. Right. But he must've said something to make you look this bad."

"I'm fine, really," Harry said. He wasn't... he kept hearing Dilys Derwent's parting shot... or envisioning a pretty woman with Jane's face, hellish awareness in her eyes as hooded, jeering men surrounded her...

"The hell you are," Ron said.

Harry was saved from having to reply by a crowd of third-years clattering down the staircase toward them. He and Ron waited until the younger students had passed, then got up and resumed their journey to the Gryffindor common room.

Desperate to take his mind off of those awful, haunting images, Harry said, "What _are_ you going to do about your girl problem?"

"Remember I was hoping I'd fall off my broom to get out of having to help Hagrid with the spiders?" Ron said.

"No such luck, with the Quidditch game canceled."

"Now I'm hoping one of the spiders finishes me off, so I don't have to worry about girls." Ron dragged his feet as they neared a familiar turn that indicated they were close to the Fat Lady's portrait hole.

"You've got to talk to Hermione," Harry said.

"What the devil am I going to say to Hermione? In case you hadn't noticed, she's not speaking to me. Hasn't said a word since Saturday night. She hates me."

"Actually, she doesn't. _That's_ the problem."

"Tell me about it."

Hermione wasn't in the common room when they entered, so Ron was granted a bit more of a reprieve. He still had to endure the ribbing of everyone else as he made a mad dash for the relative safety of their dormitory, people imitating the sound of the alarm klaxon and loudly asking him what his secret was. Harry saw that several girls who had previously never before given Ron Weasley the time of day were now casting speculative looks at him.

Any other time, Harry himself might have been the center of attention, with everyone wanting to hear all about the drowning of Devona Stormdark and his rescue of Jane Kirkallen, her being Slytherin only adding spice to the tasty tale. But Ron's adventures, for a rare change, had trumped Harry's. Sex beat death any time when it came to juicy gossip. If the whole story about himself and Jane had been known...

Not that he was begrudging Ron his place in the spotlight. It didn't happen often, and Harry was personally just as glad to avoid the scrutiny right now. He didn't need anyone else noticing how awful he looked, and asking him what was on his mind.

Ron didn't even linger long enough to eat, just snatched up the brown paper sack lunch that Colin had saved for him, and fled up the stairs. He didn't show his face until dinner time.

Harry fed most of his lunch-- a roast beef sandwich, a ham-and-cheese, an apple, an orange, cookies-- to the ever-ravenous Dennis Creevey and a variety of pets roaming the common room. He got his books and tried to put in a solid afternoon's studying, though it was difficult to concentrate on writing an essay on merging-shapeshifters-- combining two animal forms into one, believed to be the origins of many part-human magical species-- or Flitwick's assigned reading on Grooming and Beautification Charms. Harry had tried to use a Combing Charm on his hair and it still refused to stay flat, so after that he gave it up as a bad job.

Classes were canceled again on Tuesday, with preparations being made for the memorial service that evening. The students still didn't know what to make of so much leisure time. Under the circumstances, celebrating and enjoying themselves seemed rude, but few of them could properly concentrate on homework.

By Tuesday afternoon, the clouds outside had finally thinned and broken up enough to allow a few feeble rays of sunshine through, and this caused a mass exodus from the common room despite the fact that the grounds were still soggy. Harry went up to put his books in his trunk and ask Ron if Ron was up for a trek down to Hagrid's, but found Ron snoring, splayed out face-down on his bed like a dead starfish.

Hagrid proved not to be home, so it was a wasted trip after all. Harry detoured around the still-draining pumpkin patch and came to the lake. The surface was strewn with driftwood blown down in the storm, and several people were amusing themselves bewitching sticks to race through the water. The giant squid occasionally reached up from below and snared one.

He saw a familiar mass of bushy brown hair. Hermione was beneath the beech tree, where the three of them liked to sit in the shade on warm days. She had spread an oilskin cloak on the ground and was sitting on it with her knees drawn up and her chin propped on them, arms circling her shins, gazing dolefully out over the lake.

"I made a complete fool of myself the other night," she said without preamble, as Harry came up.

"Not so bad," he said.

"Don't fib, Harry."

"All right, it was pretty bad. But who could have known?"

"_I_ knew! Because I'm still the only one who's read _Hogwarts, A History_. I knew all about the enchantments on the castle."

"How come there's none on the bathrooms, then?" he asked. "We spent all that time in the girls' loo our second year, and Myrtle can spy on the prefects any time she likes."

"It isn't everywhere," Hermione said. She eyed Harry in an odd way. "There aren't any Chastity Charms in the Slytherin dormitories, for instance."

"Chastity Charms? Is that really what they're called?"

"That's what the girls call them," Hermione said indifferently.

"But there's none in the Slytherin dungeon?"

"Salazar Slytherin is quoted in _Hogwarts, A History_ as saying that for the students of his House, they'd only see such restrictions as a challenge."

"Oh."

"How did I let this happen?" Hermione asked suddenly. "How, Harry?"

Carefully, he said, "How'd you let what, exactly, happen?"

"How did I let myself fall for that clueless red-headed buffoon?"

"Good question."

"I _knew_ he would never figure out that I liked him, so what was I waiting for? Why didn't I say something earlier? Now it's too late. Now he's in love with Looney Lovegood and the whole school knows it and I'm a laughingstock."

"You aren't --"

"I am so!"

"And Ron isn't --"

"Yes he is!"

"I give up," Harry said. "I never can win a logical argument with you."

"There's nothing logical about this," she said wretchedly. "That's what makes it so unbearable. He's all wrong for me, Harry. From the moment we met, he thought I was a pushy, bossy, show-offy know-it-all and I thought he was a... a ..."

"Clueless red-headed buffoon?" Harry volunteered.

"Exactly. He's thick, he's stubborn, he's no good with schoolwork or exams, he was dismal as a prefect, really dismal, I had to carry the entire House thanks to him and he wouldn't lift a finger or say a word to help me, and it was _his_ brothers causing most of the trouble!"

"So why _do_ you like him then, Hermione?"

"I don't know!" she wailed, digging her hands into her hair like she thought she could get at the brain underneath and wring some sense out of it. "I should like someone witty, and clever, and responsible! Anthony Goldstein, or Ernie Macmillan, or somebody like that!"

"Ernie's responsible, but I'm not sure about witty or clever," Harry said. "Bit of a plodding, pompous bore, I always thought. Decent bloke, though."

"But Ron Weasley?" Hermione said as if she hadn't heard him. "What's the matter with me?"

"I like Ron --"

"Of course _you_ like him, Harry, he's your best friend. And as a friend, I like him fine too. But think about it. Would you want to date him?"

"What?"

She flapped her hand. "Not that way. If you were a girl. If you were me."

"Never really considered it. And what about Krum? I thought you fancied him."

"Viktor's nice and all," Hermione agreed. "Not terribly handsome but he's good to talk to if you can get him without a gang of giggling girls around. But it isn't like that, Harry. Not me and Viktor."

He wondered if, somewhere off in Bulgaria or wherever Viktor Krum was currently hanging his cloak, Krum was doing this very same thing. Sitting on the shores of some lake, saying, "Vat is vith me, dat I like Hermy-own-ninny so much ven she thinks of me only as a friend?"

"Well, how was Ron supposed to know?" asked Harry. "It's not like you ever gave him any signs."

"I gave him plenty of signs!"

"Hermione, I mean signs that we boys can understand."

"You can't just _tell_ a boy that you fancy him!" Hermione was highly affronted.

"It'd make things a lot easier," Harry said.

"But that's... that's not... it just isn't done that way! He should have known. He should have figured it out."

"You know how good Ron and I are at figuring things out."

She clawed her fingers into her hair again. "What's the matter with him?"

"You probably scare him."

"What?"

"Remind him of his mum."

"Harry!"

"Well, you do. Always scolding him, and, let's be frank, Hermione, bossing him around."

"If anything," she said, "that should have been a hint! Don't men always marry women who remind them of their mothers?"

"If that's true," Harry said, "then I'm glad I never met Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge's mother."

"Wouldn't _you_ marry a girl who reminded you of your mother?"

"Why are we talking about marriage all of a sudden?" Harry asked uneasily. "I thought this was about Hogsmeade dates and kissing."

She gave him a withering look. "Hypothetically speaking."

"I don't know much about her," Harry said. He thought about it, thought especially of Lily as he had seen her at age fifteen in Snape's memories. "The closest person I can think of who reminds me of her would be Ginny, I guess. Red hair, hot temper. And I can't see myself with Ginny!"

"At least Ginny figured that out," Hermione said. "I kept on hoping about Ron. Does that mean she's smarter than me, or just more realistic?"

"Give Ron a chance, Hermione. He never had an idea that you fancied him before. Now he knows."

"Does he really?" She popped her eyes at him in mock astonishment. "What could have possibly tipped him off?"

"Believe me, it's on his mind now."

"Well, now it's too late!" she practically shrieked.

"You mean that now you _don't_ like him?"

"I mean now he's with Luna, and the whole school knows it, and everyone in Gryffindor knows that I'm a stupid dunce when it comes to boys. They all think he's some kind of... of... super stud ..."

Ron Weasley, super stud. Harry knew that if he laughed, it'd be the last straw for Hermione and she would either go storming off and never speak to him again-- not that she'd really spoken to either him or Ron in the past couple of days  or she'd jinx the living daylights out of him and _then_ go storming off and never speak to him again. After what she'd done to Marietta Edgecombe, Harry didn't look forward to spending weeks in St. Mungo's while expert teams of Healers were brought in by Portkey from around the globe trying to undo whatever it was that Hermione had done to him.

"--crazy about him, and _I'm_ the one who came in second!" Hermione finished. "And there's not one thing I can do about it."

"This may sound nutty," Harry said, "and bear in mind that it's only because I'm as big an idiot when it comes to this sort of stuff as Ron is... but have you thought about... _talking_ to him?"

"And saying what?" she snapped. "Done is done, can't be undone, Harry."

"So this is it, then?" he asked, more harshly than he meant to. "He's sixteen, he's had one real date with a girl, one real kiss, and now his whole future's locked in stone?"

"It was more than one kiss by what he was telling you!"

"He's not going to marry the first girl he went out with! And he didn't even _want_ to go out with her; she surprised him into it!"

"And I suppose she surprised him into sticking his tongue down her throat," Hermione said frostily. "Or putting his hand on --"

"Give it a rest!" Harry cried. "We don't know any better, all right? We're boys! We don't understand the intricacies of all this... relationship stuff! When something happens, we react to it, and you can't expect us to have the least slightest idea what in the hell is going on! Not until someone else explains it to us, preferably in simple words! We don't know what you girls are thinking or feeling. We can't decipher your hints and double meanings! You can wrap us around your little fingers or tie us in knots or stomp us like grapes, Hermione, and we won't have... one... damned... clue."

She sat back and stared at him for several beats, open-mouthed. "But you should," she finally said.

"But we don't. We can't. Maybe when we grow up... but then again, maybe not. Now that I think about it, I don't know any grown-up men who are savvy about women."

"Bill."

"Pardon me?"

"Bill Weasley. Ron's brother."

"He's the exception that proves the rule," Harry said. "All the rest are either idiots bumbling along while women put up with them  like Hagrid and Madame Maxime, or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley  or they're doing exactly what you do, overthinking and letting their analytical reasoning get in the way of their emotions."

"Who's doing that?"

"Lupin, for one," Harry said. "Talking himself out of taking a chance with Tonks."

"Harry, he has very good reasons --"

"See? He's going to talk himself right into being alone for the rest of his life."

"He _is_ a werewolf," she said gently.

"Does that mean he can't love? Isn't worthy of being loved?"

"No, of course not! But --"

"It's hard enough finding someone," Harry said. "There are enough problems and obstacles getting in the way without rationalizing yourself a bunch more. Hermione, you like Ron. You let him know  in no uncertain terms, might I add!  and now he's got to figure out what he wants. _He's_ got to figure it out."

"But he can't figure _anything_ out!" she cried. "And I'm too late anyway."

"Where does all this 'now is forever' stuff come from?" Harry asked. "Why is one kiss a lifelong commitment? Particularly when it wasn't so much a date as an ambush? I've kissed Cho, and I'm certainly not going to marry her. I've kissed Jane, and --"

"You _what_?"

He bit his tongue. Hard.

"When?" demanded Hermione. "How come you didn't tell me?"

"There hasn't really been a good time to mention it," Harry said, feeling his face turn warm.

"Oh, after you rescued her, of course," Hermione said with a 'that explains it' complacency. "I guess that's only to be expected."

"What do you mean by that? My 'saving-people' thing?"

"Harry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I just... didn't realize you felt quite so strongly about Jane. Isn't it difficult?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "Yeah, actually. More than you know."

That was a mistake. There was nothing guaranteed to pique the interest of Hermione Granger faster than suggesting to her that there was something she didn't know. She perked right up, her distress over Ron pushed to the side for the time being.

"I imagine I have a fair grasp of the problems you're facing," she said, sounding uncomfortably like McGonagall again. The longer she served as McGonagall's Student Apprentice, the more those mannerisms set in. "It's complicated enough when you're in different Houses, but when she's --"

"Slytherin, I know," Harry said. "Look, Hermione, I'd really rather not go into all this again. For once, it's not _my_ life that's a mess. Comparatively speaking, anyway. No one's trying to kill me --" he leaned back and knocked the trunk of the beech tree, "-- the teachers are tolerable except for Snape and he's no more abhorrent than usual, no bad dreams, no pain in my scar, no dementors. So, all things considered, it's you and Ron I'm worried about. I'd like to help."

Hermione thumped her chin down on her knees again. "I wish you could, Harry, but you're right... it's Ron who has to work out what he wants."

There seemed not much more he could say to that, so he sat beside her and they watched the driftwood-racing down at the lake until the sky clouded up again and the day darkened and dinner time drew near. Students abandoned their various outdoor pursuits-- it really was too cold and dreary anyway, but after the storm there had been a strong unconscious desire to get out into the sunlight, in defiance of it and of Devona's death.

The problem of how it would go with Hermione and Ron at the same table was solved by Ron not showing up. He was, according to Neville, still sprawled face-down on his bed and snoring fit to shake the walls.

"Are you going?" Ginny asked Harry. "To the service for Devona Stormdark?"

He nodded. "Thought I would, yeah. You?"

"She was in our year, so we all agreed to go." Ginny gestured around at Colin and the other fifth-years. "It's only right, I guess. We saw her parents arrive an hour ago. They've been up with Dumbledore, and then Snape took them down to the dungeons to get her things."

It was a sobering notion, and Harry poked at his food while musing about it.

He tried to imagine Aunt Petunia coming to Hogwarts to pack up his belongings if he got himself killed, and of course that was ludicrous. Someone else would do it. Mrs. Weasley, or maybe Gwenna Golden. Hedwig would need a new home.

Hermione claimed she had some papers to grade for McGonagall, and slipped away before dessert. Lavender and Parvati and some of the other girls nearly gave themselves concussions from putting their heads together so fast to whisper once her back was turned, but a few Gryffindor girls watched her with evident sympathy.

The boys, almost universally, were as oblivious as ever.

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Four -- For Funerals and a Wedding ... coming Friday, January 28th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	24. For Funerals and a Wedding

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Four -- For Funerals and a Wedding  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Devona Stormdark's parents were in the chapel with Snape and Dumbledore when the students walked in.

They were as striking as their daughter, remaining arrogant in appearance despite their grief. Devona had inherited her black-and-white streaked hair from her father, who also sported a short Van Dyke beard with a white blaze, and gasflame-blue eyes. Her mother was a full-figured woman, built a bit like Mrs. Weasley but carrying it well in expensive, tailored clothes. She had hair the color of a storm cloud and a necklace with a ruby pendant the size of a doorknob.

Both Stormdarks spotted Harry at once, and Mr. Stormdark whispered something to Snape behind his hand. Snape gave a single curt nod.

"You have some nerve, Potter," Draco Malfoy whispered, passing him. "Come to gloat? Another one down?"

"I would have saved her if I could," Harry said.

The sincerity in his voice made many Slytherins stop and look at him. Blaise Zabini shrugged philosophically. Pansy Parkinson took Malfoy's arm and hurried him by, sneering at Harry in a way that turned her pug nose even more piggish.

He sat with Ginny, Colin and the other non-Slytherin fifth-years, all of them gathered together in a defensive group to one side of the chapel.

It was a long, narrow chamber, windowless except for an eastern-facing round stained-glass mosaic that sparkled like a dazzling handful of jewels on sunny Sunday mornings when the rising sunlight streamed through. On this, a cloudy Tuesday night, the panes of tinted glass were dark and gloomy, and all the illumination in the room came from rows and rows of candles in brass holders. The candles were of two varieties-- tall and tapered, and short and stubby.

They cast a flickering glow on the portraits that covered the oak-paneled walls, portraits of saints and angels and scenes from mythologies ranging from Christian to classical, portraits of priests of a multitude of diverse religions from all around the world. Several smaller rooms branched off, each devoted to a different faith; in the nearest gleamed a many-armed brass figure, and in the one beside that was an alabaster statue of a moon goddess.

Thanks to the Dursleys' fear of what would happen if they ever took Harry to church, he had not been brought up to adhere to any particular faith. It had never occurred to him to wonder if his parents had. Just one more thing he would never be able to ask them.

He hadn't attended the memorial service on the first weekend of school, the one for Nott and Crabbe. There hadn't even been one for Goyle, his death coming as it had so close on the heels of that of Cornelius Fudge and Dumbledore's emergency appointment as Minister and the subsequent upheavals.

Fudge's funeral had been a small, private affair, much to the indignation of the _Daily Prophet_. From listening to the teachers talk in the faculty lounge while delivering a stack of essays to Professor Golden, Harry understood that it had been kept that way on purpose out of a very valid concern that the Death Eaters would not be able to resist the temptation offered by such a large public congregation of influential wizards. The entire Wizengamot would have turned out, and all the staff of the Ministry, and dignitaries from other countries as well.

He saw Jane sitting with Nadine Zellis, Tiberius Flint, and other of Devona's closest classmates, near the front of the chapel. What, he wondered, would Jane's stepfather the vicar have thought if he could see this room? And full of black-clad young witches and wizards, as well.

The school chaplain led a nondenominational prayer, which was followed by a brief speech from Dumbledore, a few words from Devona's parents, a longer speech from Snape, and then an invitation for her fellow students to come up and speak if they wished. A few did, haltingly, and then it was Jane's turn.

Ginny stirred and glanced at Harry. He kept his expression carefully neutral. Ginny was too keen by half, too observant. He hadn't told her about kissing Jane, but somehow he had the idea that she already knew.

"I'm to blame for Devona's death," Jane said, standing at the front of the room with her dark eyes catching the glimmer of the candlelight, and her face drawn and pale. "I was the reason she was out there on that hill. We should have sheltered somewhere else. It was dangerous, risky. I should have known better. But we argued, and then the lightning came... and we paid the price for our folly. Devona paid a far higher price, and I will carry that with me all of my days. It was only blind luck that my life was spared."

Harry wanted to object, but what would he say? The real truth of that night wasn't anything he could talk about, least of all here.

"I can only think how cruel and unfair fate is," Jane said. "When I look at Devona's parents, and all of her friends here, I know that she will be missed far more than I would have been, if it had turned out the other way. She has parents who love her, and I want to say to them... Mr. and Mrs. Stormdark... I am so, so sorry for your loss. It shouldn't have been this way."

"Thank you, Miss Kirkallen," Snape said, moving toward her with an arm outstretched as if to usher her back to her seat.

Jane twisted away from Snape's touch with a stifled cry. Harry tensed and Ginny grabbed his arm before he could do something dumb, like leap up and command Snape to keep his damned hands off her.

Snape drew back, disconcerted. Jane murmured apologetically and scurried to her seat, not looking at him or anyone else. Nadine Zellis leaned close to whisper something, and Jane still didn't look up, just shook her head with her gaze fixed on the floor.

Harry watched, feeling frustrated that he could neither say nor do anything to help. He saw that Dumbledore was watching, too, and that Dumbledore's light blue eyes were shadowed and thoughtful.

Tiberius Flint got up next, and spoke admiringly about how proud and clever Devona had been. "A true Slytherin," he said. "And she --"

"Was cursed!" a high, shrill voice rang out.

Flint stopped, dumbfounded. Heads turned.

The boy in the aisle was small and scrawny, his face gaunt, his hair standing up in wild spikes and corkscrews that made Harry's look well-groomed. The smudges under his eyes suggested he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a while, and his nails were gnawed down to the quick.

Harry had seen him Sunday morning at breakfast, when a Gryffindor first-year had pointed him out. Then, he'd looked unwell. Now, he looked positively deranged.

"Mr. Hawke," began Snape irritably.

"Cursed!" Edmund Hawke's voice splintered. Huge tears, like silvery pearls in the flickering light, coursed from his bulging, unblinking eyes. "She was cursed, that's what killed her, that's what killed Ted and Vincent and Greg too, and we're next!"

"Mr. Hawke!" Snape said, more loudly.

"Edmund," Dumbledore said, opting for warm, carrying gentleness instead of harsh volume.

"What in the world?" cried Devona's mother in an operatic alto.

Edmund proceeded up the aisle, and the students sitting nearest him actually cringed away as if, instead of a frightened eleven-year-old boy, he was some Old Testament prophet of doom.

"All of us! Evil spawn, tainted blood! Descendants of Death Eaters!" he raved. He jabbed one nail-bitten finger at Malfoy, who recoiled. "We're next, Draco! You, and me! Nigel thinks he got away but he hasn't, he can't, it'll get him, too!"

"I'll handle this," Snape said, drawing his wand.

Dumbledore stayed him. "Please, Severus. Permit me."

Everyone was on their feet now, backing away from the aisle and scrambling out of their seats as Edmund passed. One young Slytherin girl held out a tentative hand-- "Eddie?"-- but he didn't look at her. He kept staring at Malfoy, advancing on Malfoy, and Malfoy had run out of room to retreat.

"Stop it, Hawke," Malfoy said, putting on a show of bravado that fooled no one.

"Edmund." Dumbledore stepped between them. "Edmund, what is the matter?"

"Children of darkness," Edmund said, and cackled. "We're all going to die."

"No, Edmund," Dumbledore said soothingly. He hunkered down, robes and long silver beard pooling on the floor, to bring his eyes to Edmund's level.

Snape caught Malfoy by the collar of his robes and bodily lifted him away, like a mother cat with a recalcitrant kitten.

Harry was in the midst of the throng of fifth-years from other houses. Over their heads, he saw Jane, who had her arms crossed as if hugging herself and looked stricken.

"Eddie, no," she said. "It isn't like that."

"The Order of the Phoenix," Edmund said.

Both Dumbledore and Harry blinked.

"What did you say, Edmund?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"Phoenix fire to burn out the darkness! Burn out the evil!" Edmund broke away from Dumbledore and ran, students scattering before him in a whirlwind of flying black robes. "But I'll show them! I'll show them! Before they can get me!"

"Eddie!" Jane screamed. "Eddie, no! Not you!"

"He's a lunatic!" Malfoy yelled, hiding behind Snape.

There was a royal-blue blur, and suddenly Dumbledore was in front of Edmund again, as if he'd crossed the intervening space so fast that it was one step short of Apparition. But Edmund didn't stop or even slow. He plowed into Dumbledore at full speed, and though he was only a scrawny kid, the collision caught Dumbledore by surprise and knocked him down.

Dumbledore crashed to the floor, and even over the tumult of panic building in the room, Harry heard the dry, dusty snap of a breaking bone. He saw Dumbledore's face blanch with pain.

Then Edmund was at one of the candle-racks, dozens of votive candles in brass holders. "I won't _let_ the curse get me!" he shrieked, and seized the edges of the rack.

"Hawke!" Snape lunged, but Malfoy was clinging to his robes. Malfoy's weight jerked Snape off-balance. They both fell, Malfoy landing solidly atop Snape's back and driving Snape's long, hooked nose into the steps leading up to the altar.

"Burn!" Edmund yanked the rack over onto himself.

Candles tumbled out of their holders and rained down on Edmund. Many whiffed out, thin coils of smoke rising from their extinguished wicks, but others ignited his robes with a quick whooshing flare of light.

A screaming, trampling stampede of students made for the door. Mr. and Mrs. Stormdark were right in there with them, all pride and dignity forgotten as they clawed and elbowed their way toward escape. The chaplain was shouting frantically for everyone to calm down, but they were having none of it.

"Get off me, Malfoy!" Snape thrashed, and Malfoy was flipped into the air like a tiddlywink.

In the midst of the panic and rising conflagration, Harry drew his wand. His mind was crystal-clear. He thought of a paper he'd written on witch burnings, and how Wendelin the Weird had so enjoyed the cool minty-fresh tickling sensation of the flames when she used a...

He waved his wand at Edmund and cast a Flame Freezing Charm.

Edmund's robes were on fire and more blazes had sprung up wherever the errant rolling candles had landed, but his skin quit blistering and his hair quit charring. Through a corona of fire, Harry saw his eyes fly open in disbelief. Then despair filled them.

"Noooo!" he howled.

Jane fought through the surging tide of people until she was close to Edmund. She reached out, hissed, and snatched her singed hands back.

Ginny, who had managed to stay at Harry's side through everything, whipped out her wand and jabbed it around. "_Aqueous_!" she said, and water-balloon sized globs of water appeared in mid-air, splashing down on several of the smaller fires, extinguishing them each in turn.

Snape, blood streaming from his crushed nose, got to his feet and stalked over to them with his wand gripped in his fist. Behind him, Malfoy was spread-eagle on the floor, groaning, gazing blearily up at the rafters.

"_Combusticus Nullio_!" Snape intoned, his voice clogged and fog-hornish, spitting a bloody mist. He waved his wand in an ascending spiral.

The flames surrounding Edmund turned black, then fled upward and diminished like fleeting smoke. Edmund's robes were reduced to scorched flaps and tatters of cloth, but the clothes he wore beneath, as well as his skin and hair, were barely damaged.

Crying hysterically at being denied his chance at self-immolation, Edmund whirled toward another rack of candles.

"_Petrificus Totallis_!" Snape added, with another swipe of his wand.

Edmund went rigid and toppled over. Jane caught him, and lowered him tenderly to the ground.

The chapel smelled of smoke, furniture was upended, and it was hard to believe that only moments ago, it had been a place of peace and orderly mourning.

It was now deserted but for the few of them. Snape, standing over Edmund with his wand at the ready and his nose dripping blood. Jane, kneeling beside the paralyzed boy and looking anxiously up at the Potions Master. Harry and Ginny, side by side with their wands at the ready too. Malfoy, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. And Dumbledore, still prone with his right leg oddly bent and shortened, and his face lined and ghastly with pain.

"You saved his life," Jane said, shifting her gaze to Harry.

Snape's lip curled. "Yes, quick thinking, Potter," he said, as if it hurt him to do so. And then, as if it _really_ hurt, he grudgingly added, "Ten points to Gryffindor."

"Ten?" blurted Ginny, irate. "Is that all it's worth, a measly ten points, saving a boy's life?"

"This is hardly something to haggle over, Miss Weasley," Snape hissed. "Need I remind you that your conduct could just as quickly _lose_ Gryffindor those points."

"If you're quite finished," Dumbledore said dryly, "I would greatly appreciate it if someone would send for Madame Pomfrey. I seem to have broken my hip."

"I'll do it," Ginny said, though not without a final glare at Snape. She rushed from the chapel, though judging by the clamor in the hall outside, Madame Pomfrey would probably already be on her way, along with everyone else in Hogwarts.

"It's true, isn't it?" Malfoy asked, looking at the darting, frantic eyes that were the only mobile part of Edmund Hawke. "There _is_ a curse. We're going to die, aren't we?"

"Don't be ludicrous, Malfoy," Snape said. He scrubbed his sleeve and the back of his hand over his face, examined the blood he wiped away, and grimaced. "I think I'd know if anyone in my House was under a curse."

Malfoy did not look convinced.

Harry wanted to go to Jane but knew that he couldn't very well do that, so he went to Dumbledore instead and knelt at his side. "Is it bad, do you think?"

"Nothing Poppy can't fix right up," Dumbledore said, smiling with what was probably forced gaiety. He looked past Harry, and pursed his lips. "Oh, dear."

Rayyid arrowed into the room on wings of fire, spear held aloft and ablaze. He saw the fallen Dumbledore and a roar burst from him. Harry sprang back and raised his hands in surrender. Heat washed over him as the burning leonine guardian advanced.

"It's all right, Rayyid," Dumbledore said. "A mere accident. Harry is not trying to harm me."

Within moments, the chapel was crowded again as Madame Pomfrey bustled in to take charge. She had Dumbledore moved to the hospital wing, followed by Edmund Hawke-- physically unhurt, but still raving once Snape's spell wore off, he had to be strapped down and his wand taken away from him. The nurse ordered Snape to the hospital wing as well so that she could mend his broken nose.

With all of that going on, Harry found himself shunted aside. There, by a wall of the chapel beneath a portrait of Roman gods, he ended up near Malfoy and Jane, both of whom had also been brusquely ordered out of the way by Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall.

"-- really is some sort of curse?" Malfoy was asking.

"Maybe there is," Jane said in a soft, toneless voice. "Maybe there really is. Poor Eddie. Poor Devona. I never thought ..."

"Well, at least _you're_ safe," he said, a little petulantly. A sudden thought struck him, and Malfoy added in a whisper, "Your mother didn't have any Death Eater relatives, did she?"

"No," Jane said, and looked like she was trying to keep from either laughing or crying. "Not my mother."

A sudden sharp noise sounded, but it was only McGonagall clapping her hands. "All of you, out," she proclaimed. "To your dormitories. There's nothing more to see here."

Harry didn't want to go without talking to Jane, but there was no way he could manage it. Not with so many people about. He went upstairs, his head aching and packed full of disturbing thoughts. The day had been too long, too troubling. In too many ways.

The Gryffindor common room was abuzz, Ginny and Colin and the other fifth-years excitedly relating what had happened in the chapel.

"-- with a really good Flame Freezing Charm," Ginny was saying as Harry came in.

"-- nose crunched like an eggshell and bled all over the place," Colin said at the same time.

Ron, only recently awakened by the groggy look of him, rubbed his eyes and peered at Harry. "How long have I been sleeping?" he asked.

"Just since this afternoon."

"I take one nap, and miss everything?"

Harry drew him aside. "Have you talked to Hermione yet?"

"Give us a break, I only just got up!"

"I really think you should."

Ron's face drooped unhappily. "Do I have to?"

"What, you were thinking that you could ignore your problems and they'd conveniently go away?"

"Wouldn't that be nice," Ron said. He glanced into the corner, where Hermione was concentrating her homework... or was pretending to be concentrating on her homework. "What'm I going to say to her?"

"You could ask her out."

"Luna would kill me!"

"So you're going to keep seeing Luna?"

"Do I have to?"

Harry sighed. "Ron, listen... you've got to make up your own mind about this. I can't help you. It's been a long damned weekend and my head hurts and I'm going to bed. Good luck."

He felt Ron's soulful, pleading gaze follow him all the way to the stairs, wanting Harry to come up with the perfect, painless answer to his troubles. But once he had ascended a few turns, the contact was broken.

Neville was the only one in the room when Harry got there, and Neville was sitting on his bed with a lap desk propped across his knees, frowning over a letter he was writing, and chewing so much on the end of his quill that it had become very sad and bedraggled. He gave a start when Harry came in, and scrambled first to try and hide the letter, then to act as if it were nothing important.

"Hi, Harry!" he said.

"Hey, Neville. Writing to your gran?"

"Yes! Yes, that's it exactly. Writing to my gran. She likes to hear from me, you know."

"Mm-hmm," Harry said. "Going to tell her about Cecily?"

Neville went scarlet and slapped his hand guiltily over the letter. "I... um ..."

"Never mind." Harry grinned. "Good night, Neville."

He pulled the curtains around his four-poster. After a while, he heard the scratching of Neville's quill resume, and grinned again.

Sleep was slow in coming. Harry lay there so long, looking up into the blurry dimness with his glasses off, that he heard the others come in, change, get into bed, and start to snore. He almost stuck his head out to ask Ron how it had gone with Hermione-- he hadn't heard any angry shouting from downstairs, so that was a positive sign-- but figured it could wait until morning.

As he closed his eyes, a tremendous searing pain exploded through his scar. It was so huge, so shocking coming as it did with no warning, that Harry couldn't even cry out. He tried to take a breath and felt like his throat was constricted to the diameter of a drinking straw.

It passed almost at once, leaving him clammy and shivering. Harry gingerly probed at his forehead with his fingertips. The pain had been so severe that he wouldn't have been surprised to find his skull split open. But it was intact, and aside from a bit of tenderness, he no longer hurt at all.

"Voldemort," he whispered silently into the dark.

Something had happened. Something big. There hadn't been anything, not so much as a twinge, for months now. No shooting pains, no feelings of coldly alien fury or glee welling up inside of him as he sensed Voldemort's moods.

And now, out of the blue, this. There and then gone.

What could it have been? The flash had been so fast that Harry couldn't tell if it had been angry or delighted. Good news or bad?

A possible explanation came to him then, one so nastily plausible that Harry got goose bumps.

He tried to push it out of his mind and go to sleep. What else could he do? There was no need to see Madame Pomfrey, because there was nothing medically wrong. And Dumbledore? For one thing, Dumbledore would be resting in the hospital wing, most likely asleep. For another, what could Harry report? That his scar had hurt again? Old news. No big deal.

The next thing he knew, his curtained four-poster had disappeared. He was someplace else. Standing, fully dressed-- in his bottle-green dress robes, no less-- in a well-lighted chamber surrounded by people.

"What ...?"

Ron was beside him, and as Harry turned to him to ask what in the world was going on, the stench hit him.

Because Ron was dead. His face was bloated and waxy-purple, his body pocked with the pinprick holes of countless spider bites. Ron's corpse was wearing his old dress robes, the ugly maroon ones with the lace collar and cuffs, moldering now and streaked with graveyard dirt.

Slowly, telling himself that this couldn't be real but _had_ to be a nightmare, Harry turned around. He saw other people he knew, Hogwarts students and teachers, Ministry officials, the Weasley family, people from Hogsmeade, sitting in formal wear on long high-backed benches. Hagrid bulked large among them, but Hagrid was dead, too, his body hideously torn by long claws.

They were all dead. All of them. Neville and Hannah Abbott and the Patil twins and Oliver Wood and McGonagall and Flitwick and Madame Rosmerta and Tonks and Lupin and everyone. Dead... but looking at him with accusing eyes.

It was, he realized, the school chapel again. The stained glass window was lit from behind by some feverish, hellish light, so that its colors spilled across the polished wooden floor like smears of blood.

Ron wasn't beside him any more. Now it was Draco Malfoy, looking very much alive, his white-blond hair combed back, a triumphant sneer stamped on his pointed features. "Time, Potter," he said.

Beyond Malfoy came more living people, the only live ones in this hall of the dead. Malfoy's parents, Macnair the executioner, Karkaroff, Barty Crouch Jr., others that Harry didn't know. But some of them _shouldn't_ have been living... some of them were faces he had seen in the _Daily Prophet_, the faces of Dark witches and wizards who'd died long ago, like Lethia Nox. They filed in and took their seats, waiting expectantly.

Up in the organ loft, a black-haired woman hammered out a soulless dirge. Harry knew her at once. She was Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eater who had tortured Neville's parents and killed Sirius. Even as he looked at her, the awful melody changed to a tune Harry almost recognized, eerily familiar but _wrong_ in some unspeakable way.

The doors at the back of the chapel opened and a line of dead girls came in. Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Cho... all bled chalk-white, heads lolling, withered bouquets clasped in shriveled, bony hands. Following them was a little boy. Arcturus. Carrying a cushion almost as big as he was, and on the cushion was the severed head of a dog. A large, shaggy black dog sometimes known as Padfoot, and sometimes known as Snuffles.

"This isn't real," Harry said.

"Oh, it's very real, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "Very real indeed."

At the front of the room, a man who had previously stood with his back to Harry now turned. Vicar Kirkallen had been flayed, his flesh raw and weeping where the skin had been stripped away. His eyes glared above red cheek muscles crisscrossed with the narrow whitish straps of tendon.

"Who gives this woman?" he rasped.

"I do," said Snape, rising from his seat in a swirl of black robes.

"And I," Lucius Malfoy said.

"Me, too," added Peter Pettigrew, tittering his rodent's laugh.

"We, her fathers, give her," said an unfamiliar man Harry nonetheless knew to be Regulus Black. And Karkaroff, Barty Crouch, Macnair, Mulciber and the other Death Eaters murmured their assent.

Jane walked down the aisle toward Harry alone, her gown frothy with black lace, a writhing bundle of silvery-green snakes serving as her bouquet. He saw the frantic distress in her eyes but she moved smoothly, and he realized that she was in the grips of the Imperius Curse. He looked around to see who was controlling her, but the only one holding a wand was...

...himself.

"No," he said, and tried to drop the wand, break the spell.

Nothing happened. Beside him, Malfoy snickered.

"Too late for that, Potter. You're in this to the bitter end."

"It's a dream. A nightmare."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"It _is_!" he insisted as Jane came down the aisle.

Her left hand floated up as if through deep water and Harry took it.

"Jane! Can you hear me?"

He was holding a ring, a gold ring shaped like a snake, with glittering flecks of rubies for eyes and ivory fangs glistening with venom. The golden snake was alive, hissing at him, flicking its tongue in warning.

"She's yours now," the vicar said.

But it wasn't the vicar. Vicar Kirkallen had a mellow, resonant voice, perfect for delivering sermons and counseling his parishioners. This voice was whispery, high, and terrible. It slid into his ears like icy liquid.

Harry's head turned and he beheld not the vicar at all but Voldemort, tall and gaunt, those hateful red eyes with their vertically slit pupils shining with malevolence.

"She's yours now," Voldemort said again. "And that makes you mine!"

"No!" Harry bellowed, and hit the floor with a bone-jarring crash. They sprang on him, the Death Eaters, their robes smothering him and wrapping around his limbs--

"Harry! Blimey! Harry, wake up!"

"Not yours!" Harry flailed his limbs, kicked and punched wildly in all directions. "Never... yours... never!"

"Neville, help me! He's-- ow!-- fighting me!"

"What's the matter with him?"

"He's having a fit."

"Hold him, Ron... I'll ..."

"Whatever you're going to do, Neville, do it quick!"

A ringing slap drove Harry's head sideways, into one of the bedposts with a solid bonk. The room spun around him, this way and that way and up and down and back and forth around-around-around and gradually settled back into its normal configurations.

In the lit wands of Dean and Seamus, both of whom stood back at a respectful distance, Harry saw the blurry outlines of Ron holding him by the upper arms, and Neville holding his hand poised for another blow.

He was on the floor beside his bed, so tangled in the bedclothes and curtains that he resembled an Egyptian mummy. His breathing was a series of ragged heaving gasps and his pajamas were soaked with sweat.

"What ...?" he panted. "What... happened? Ron?"

"I think that did it, Neville," Ron said. "Good one. Harry, are you back?"

"Sorry I hit you, Harry," Neville said. He fumbled Harry's glasses off the bedside table, almost dropped them, and poked them at Harry's face. The end of an earpiece stabbed Harry in the eye. "Sorry! Sorry!" He dropped them after all.

"Ah! Okay... I'm awake... let me go." Harry retrieved his glasses and put them on, one eye watering. The world swam into focus.

Ron let go of him and sat back on his heels. "What was it?" he asked intently. "What'd you see? It wasn't my dad again, was it?"

"No," Harry said. Now that he knew where he was, the shakes set in, and he huddled with his back to the wall, running a hand over his clammy face. "No, nothing like that. Just ..." He swallowed hard. "Just a bad dream."

None of them believed him. He could see it in their identical expressions.

"It was him, wasn't it?" Ron asked. "You-Know-Who."

"I'm telling you, it wasn't."

"Why're you rubbing your scar, then?"

Harry lowered his hand guiltily. "I had a nightmare. It's nothing to get --"

"Should I go find Professor McGonagall?" Neville asked.

"No!" Harry took the deepest breath he could, held it for a five-count, and slowly let it out again. "It was a nightmare, but it wasn't one of _those_ nightmares. Really. I'm all right. Go back to sleep."

With looks that said they still weren't fooled but were willing to play along just this once, Dean, Seamus and Neville returned to their beds.

"D'you want to talk about it?" Ron asked quietly.

"Thanks, but no," Harry said. "Think I'll go downstairs and see if there's anything around to drink. I'm thirsty."

"I'll come with you."

"Ron, I'm fine. Honestly."

"Sure," Ron said, and shrugged. "But I slept so much this afternoon that I'm wide awake now. So I'll come with you."

Harry gave up and didn't protest as Ron followed him down to the common room. The fire was down to embers but they kindled it up again, headed for their favorite overstuffed chairs, and Ron stopped short.

"Oh, no," he said.

Hermione had been sitting unnoticed in the shadows. She looked up, her mouth set in a resolute line. "Ron, we need to talk."

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Five -- The Mind-Journey ... coming Tuesday, February 1st, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	25. The MindJourney

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy   
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Mind-Journey   
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence. 

Send feedback to: 

Previously: 

Chapter One - Troubled Thoughts Chapter Two - Dudley's Tea Date Chapter Three - Damsel in Distress Chapter Four - Chaos and Complications Chapter Five - Wolfsbane and Moonflower Chapter Six - A Day at Diagon Alley Chapter Seven - Night of the Knife Chapter Eight - The Black and the Gold Chapter Nine - Hangman's Nott Chapter Ten - Looking Glass Chapter Eleven - Hot Water Chapter Twelve - Sixth Year Surprises Chapter Thirteen - Student Apprentice Chapter Fourteen - Defense and Disquiet Chapter Fifteen - Voices in the Silence Chapter Sixteen - Ministry Requiem Chapter Seventeen - The Liquipurging Elixir Chapter Eighteen - Refuge from the Rain Chapter Nineteen - A Dark and Stormy Night Chapter Twenty - Kiss and Tell Chapter Twenty-One - Dumbledore's New Army Chapter Twenty-Two - The Line of Derwent Chapter Twenty-Three - Hermione's Heartbreak Chapter Twenty-Four - For Funerals and a Wedding 

* * *

At no point in the history of humankind have the words "we need to talk," spoken by the female of the species, been good news for the male. Ron knew this very well, and probably wanted to turn tail and run back to the security of the dorm. But he held his ground. 

"Can't now, Hermione," he said. "Harry's got a problem." 

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically. 

He wasn't, of course  the nightmare wasn't fading the way dream images were supposed to, but remained clear and detailed in his mind. Jane  the Imperius Curse  the Death Eaters  Voldemort  the golden snake  his friends all dead  Snape  

"Fine?" Ron said, askance. "Not bloody likely." 

"Really," Harry said. "You two go ahead and talk. I'll just go for a walk or something." He started for the door. 

"No, Harry, please, stay." 

"It's none of my business. You and Ron need to work this out. My problems can wait." 

"What is it?" Hermione asked. "What's happened?" 

"Another vision," Ron said. 

"It wasn't a vision." 

"Sit down!" She flicked her wand and a chair scraped across the floor. The edge of its seat hit the backs of Harry's knees and he plopped into it. 

"Hey!" 

"A vision  like before? With the giant snake, and Ron's father?" 

"Yeah," Ron said. 

"It wasn't a vision!" repeated Harry. 

"Or like with Sirius in the Department of Mysteries?" Hermione asked. 

"Could have been," Ron said. 

"_Him_, then? Voldemort? Invading Harry's mind?" 

"One way or another, yeah, that's what I reckon." 

Harry got out of the chair, brushed past them both, found a half-finished jug of room-temperature pumpkin juice, and swigged it right from the mouth of the jug. "I'm glad that at least this has got you two speaking to one another," he said sarcastically. 

"Matters of life and death are more important," Hermione said crisply. "What did you see?" 

"He was yelling like someone was being murdered," Ron said. "And his scar's been hurting him again." 

"It has? Harry, how long?" 

"Only once, all right? Tonight. It hasn't hurt in ages." He touched it. "And then, tonight, it went off. Really quick, but severe. Then it was gone. So I tried to forget it and go to sleep. That's when I had the dream. But it was a _dream_, that's all. Not a vision. Nothing that  nothing that could ever really happen." 

They stared at him incredulously. 

"Your scar hurt like that and you tried to forget it and go to sleep?" Hermione asked. "Harry, it could be a warning" 

"I know, I know, and you think I should see Dumbledore about it." 

"Was it like before, when you could tell if " Ron screwed up his face, "if  Vuh  Vuh  damn it  _he_ was happy or upset?" 

"I did have an idea," Harry said slowly. "About what it could have been. I didn't sense his feelings or anything, but" 

"What, Harry?" prompted Hermione. 

"This'll sound silly," he said, "but what if there _is_ a curse on the descendants of Death Eaters? What if Voldemort cast it, and he was mad because I stopped Edmund Hawke from offing himself tonight?" 

"Why would  Vuh  why would You-Know-Who want them dead?" Ron frowned. "They're his followers and all." 

"I don't know," Harry said. "It was the only thing I could think of." He rubbed his forehead again and sighed. "But it doesn't make any sense, does it? Because nothing like that happened, my scar didn't hurt when I saved Jane " 

He heard what he was saying a moment too late to stop himself. 

"What are you saying, Harry?" Hermione asked. "What about Jane?" 

"It's got to stay between us," he said urgently. "Promise me." 

"We promise," she said. 

"Her  her father was one. A Death Eater." 

"The vicar?" Ron said in astonishment. 

"No," Harry said. "He's her stepfather." 

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said. "Please tell us you're joking." 

"I wouldn't joke about something like that." 

"How long have you known?" 

"Suspected for a while, only found out for sure on Saturday." 

"And you still " 

"Still what?" Harry challenged. "Still like her? Still kissed her? She hates that part of herself, Hermione, _hates_ it. She's not like Malfoy. It's not like she ever knew him, or grew up in a house full of Dark magic." 

"Hang on," Ron said. "So  this curse  you think that it was trying to take out Devona _and_ Jane, but we messed it up?" 

"Could be." 

"Curses don't work like that, Harry," Hermione said. "I've read a lot about them in the past couple of years, not just jinxes and the Unforgivable Curses but as many books as I could get my hands on, and what you're describing is just not possible." 

"Can you come up with a better explanation for what's going on around here?" he asked. 

"The Ministry officials said that the first three, Nott and Crabbe and Goyle, were suicides," Hermione said. "Devona Stormdark was an accident. And that poor little boy who tried to burn himself was  he cracked under the strain, Harry. He was suggestible. He believed that there _was_ a curse, and almost turned it into a self-fulfilling prophecy, while thinking he was trying to avoid it." 

"Then what about Harry's scar hurting?" Ron asked. "If it isn't because of the Hawke kid, what was it?" 

"If Harry didn't sense anything, we might never know. Are you sure, Harry? Not an inkling?" 

"Nothing. It just hurt, and then it faded." 

"And the dream?" 

"Had nothing to do with it," he said firmly. 

"It wasn't like the ones you had all last year, with the hallway and the door?" 

"Hermione, how many times do I have to say?" 

"What was it about, then?" 

Harry paced in front of the fireplace. "I'd really rather not say." 

"Well, how can we find out what You-Know-Who is up to?" Ron asked, not even trying to say Voldemort's name this time. "It's got to be connected, you know it has." 

"And you never did go back to studying Occlumency," Hermione said. 

Harry tipped his head back and groaned to the ceiling. "Not this again." 

"Dumbledore said how important it was that you learn to protect your thoughts," she said doggedly. 

"And Voldemort shut down his end of it anyway," Harry said. "So I don't have to bother with it, because he doesn't want me poking around in his head any more than I want him poking around in mine." 

"Maybe that's what happened tonight," Ron said. "Maybe your scar hurt because he opened that link up again." 

There was a brief silence while all three of them contemplated this. Harry would have liked to reject it out of hand, but what Ron said did make a certain amount of sense. 

"How would I know for sure?" he asked finally. 

"When you start having those visions again, mate, that'll be a pretty good clue." 

"We shouldn't wait for that," Hermione said. 

"What, then?" Harry asked. 

"You could try to find out for yourself." She dug around in her book bag and came up with a thick volume bound in midnight-blue leather, the corners fitted with silver knotwork. Stamped on the cover in silvery lettering was _Mind-Journeys: Legilimency, Occlumency and Astralmency_. 

"Who thinks this is a bad idea, whatever it is?" Ron stuck his hand high in the air. 

"How long have you had that book?" Harry asked. 

"I special-ordered it from Flourish & Blotts last year  I got a permission letter from McGonagall, because it's not normally sold to underage wizards  and had it delivered owl post," Hermione said. "Right after you first told us that Dumbledore wanted Snape to teach you Occlumency. I'd only read a little bit about that branch of magic and wanted to learn more." 

"And did you?" 

"Quite a lot, actually, and it's pretty scary stuff," Hermione said. "If it ever goes wrong, you can end up a mindless husk, or swap minds completely with another person, or go insane." 

"Who thinks this is a _really_ bad idea?" Ron pushed his hand higher. 

"I know what the first two are," Harry said, rubbing his thumb over the lettering. "But what's Astralmency?" 

"Astral projection," she said. "Sending your mind out of your body." 

"Dunno if I like the sound of that," Harry said. 

"Apparently, it lets you instantly visit places hundreds of miles away," Hermione said. "You can observe, but you'd be invisible unless you willed yourself to be seen and heard. But it's very, very dangerous. If your mind gets lost, you'd wander forever and your body wouldn't be able to eat or drink, so eventually it would die. It takes a very strong sense of self and an iron will to be able to do it." 

"And you think Harry should try," Ron said. "That's the craziest idea yet. Worse than the Polyjuice Potion, or going back in time. I never did fully understand how that worked." 

"_Do_ you think that I should?" Harry asked. He opened the book at random and saw a diagram of a man reclining on a bed, seeming asleep, while a ghostly image of himself floated up from his body, connected to it by a tether that looked like a balloon string. 

"I didn't say you should try Astralmency," Hermione said, alarmed. "I mean, a Patronus Charm is one thing  only a handful of wizards throughout history have ever been successful at astral travel." 

"So what did you have in mind? Independent study in Occlumency?" 

"It wouldn't hurt," she said. "I was also thinking that _you_ could try getting into _his_ thoughts. Voldemort's. Go on the offensive." 

"Read his mind?" 

"Legilimency isn't technically mind-reading " 

"That's what Snape said, but it sure sounded like it to me," Harry interrupted. "You want me to pry into Voldemort's thoughts and try to figure out what he's up to. How is that _not_ mind-reading?" 

"How is that in any way a good idea?" Ron said. "If he's so great at this, wouldn't he notice if Harry went rummaging in his head? Wouldn't he snap shut on him, like a Venus Flytrap?" 

"Well, it was only an idea," Hermione said. "After all, if he was able to get into Harry's mind so easily, and he gave Harry some of his powers  like the Parseltongue  all those years ago " 

"Maybe he gave me Legilimency, too?" Harry finished. 

"It's possible." She took the book back, shaking her head. "But forget about it, Harry. Ron's right. It's much too risky. I had been assuming that Voldemort would be too confident to even bother putting any mind-shielding spells on himself, because who would dare try to get at him that way? But after last year, he's probably gotten more cautious." 

"I want to try anyway," Harry said suddenly, before he could lose his nerve. "If I could learn something, anything about what he's doing " 

"Harry, no! It's a terrible idea and I wish I hadn't even brought it up." 

"Think about it, Hermione. Even if he's got nothing to do with what's been happening here at Hogwarts, you know he's behind Fudge's murder. He might have even done it because he _knew_ that the Ministry would want Dumbledore to take over." 

"Yeah," Ron said, "and get Dumbledore out in the open, where they could have a better chance at him." 

"Or get him away from Hogwarts, where they could have a better chance at _us_," Harry said. "Either way, it can't be good." 

"But surely Dumbledore already realizes that," Hermione said. "He's got the Order, remember? We shouldn't go interfering. We don't know what they're doing, and if we start stirring things up, it could ruin their plans." 

"If it wasn't for my scar hurting again, I'd agree with you," Harry said. "I want to know why. I want to know what's going on." 

"You could ask," she said with gentle reproach. "Ask Dumbledore. He'd tell you. He'd tell you anything you wanted to know." 

"I can't do that." 

"You mean you won't." 

"Same difference." 

"Harry, what's happened to you? You used to trust him." 

"I do trust him. I trust him to do what he thinks is best. The problem is, Hermione, what he thinks is best and what _I_ want don't always go together. I'm tired of him protecting me and running my life. Even if it is for my own good. I'm sixteen, I've been through more than any twenty other people, and " 

She held up her hands. "All right, Harry." 

"So, will you help me?" 

"What can I do?" 

"Talk me through it," he said, stretching out on one of the couches. "I don't have time to read an entire book." 

"You can't be serious! Harry, Legilimency takes _years_ of study to master! You can't possibly do it right off the bat. Remember how long it took you to learn the Patronus Charm?" 

"I'm not talking about Legilimency." 

"Well, what then?" 

He sat up and flipped the book open to the page showing the man's ghostly form drifting up from his body. "This." 

"Astralmency  Harry, no!" she gasped. 

"Are you mad?" Ron blurted. 

"It makes perfect sense," he said. "You said it yourself, Ron, that Voldemort would be expecting someone to try and get into his head. He'd be ready for that. He'd have traps set. But he won't be expecting this, _because_ it's so hard. If I can find him, if I can see and hear what he's doing without alerting him that I know, that could be the edge we need." 

"Harry, you can't!" Hermione said. "You're not prepared. It's too dangerous." 

"More dangerous than what? Dementors? Dragons? Fighting Voldemort face to face? I wasn't prepared for any of those things, either." 

"Just because you scraped by in all of that doesn't mean you'll be okay this time," Ron said. 

"I'll do it no matter what," Harry said. "But I'd rather have your help. What do you say, Hermione?" 

She looked at him for a long time and he looked back, his green eyes grave and determined, and finally she relented. "If you're sure, Harry." 

"I'm sure." 

"But here? Now?" sputtered Ron. 

"Getting in trouble from McGonagall is the least of my concerns," Harry said. He leaned back, getting comfortable. "Let's hurry." 

"We shouldn't hurry something like this," Hermione said, turning pages. "Hold your wand loosely clasped in both hands with your arms across your chest." 

"Like this?" 

"Good." 

"Hermione," whined Ron. "Should we really be helping him?" 

"You heard what he said. He's doing it either way." 

"That's right," Harry said. "What next?" 

"Close your eyes. Relax your body and try to clear your mind. The incantation is _Astralio_. Don't say it yet!" she added hastily. "If it works, you should feel like you'll be able to float right up from the couch. Most people fail when they get partway out, see their own body beneath them, and get frightened." 

"Then what?" asked Harry. 

"Once you're all the way out, you should be able to send yourself anywhere," Hermione said. "It's easiest if it's a place you know well. Or a person you know well  you can  home in on them, basically, like they're a beacon." 

"Okay." 

"Now, this part is vital, Harry, so pay attention. While you are in astral form, you'll be able to perceive things that you won't normally see. Other astral forms, magical energy, people's auras." 

"Auras?" Ron echoed dubiously. "You don't mean like that stuff Trelawney's always spouting." 

"Not at all," Hermione said tartly. "This isn't about Divination and someone having 'a troubled aura' " she mimicked Professor Trelawney's ethereal voice. "It's about the energy our bodies give off. Supposedly, you'll be able to tell the difference between a wizard and a Muggle just by looking at them. Or, say, an Animagus in animal form, or a person in disguise, would still have their own same original aura." 

"You mean that when we took the Polyjuice Potion," Harry said, his eyes still closed, "someone seeing our auras would have known it wasn't really us?" 

"That's only a physical transformation," she confirmed. 

"So if someone had been doing this in our fourth year, they'd have known Moody wasn't really Moody?" Ron asked. 

"Other beings can perceive auras and astral forms, too," Hermione said. "Dementors, probably  we know that they don't see the way that we do. So if he's got dementors with him, you'll have to be extra careful." 

"Don't worry about that," Harry said. "What about animals? I always had the idea Mrs. Norris could see through my Invisibility Cloak." 

"Cats, yes. I don't know about other animals." 

"Like snakes," Ron put in grimly. 

"Some kinds of magic will detect an astral form, too," she said. "Professor Moody's eye, for instance. But in general, those kinds of enchantments are pretty rare." 

"I'll be careful, I'll be careful, let's get on with it," Harry said. 

"One of the things you should see once you're out is a silvery string, or cord, or arrow," Hermione said. "This is what leads you back to your body, Harry, so it's the most important thing of all. Lose that, and you might never get home. The longer you stay out, the farther away you go, or the more tired you get, the fainter that band will become." 

"Okay." 

"You won't be able to touch anything," she said. "Which means you can pass through solid objects, but you won't be able to move them. You won't be able to cast any other spells, because of course your wand will be _here_. That means you'll be vulnerable." 

"To what?" Ron asked. "If he's not solid " 

"Other astral beings," Hermione said. "_They'll_ seem very solid, and able to hurt you. Now, the book says that sometimes, experienced Astralmens can make images of themselves appear, or speak to people, but they still cannot physically affect the real world. Since the last thing you want is to be seen, we don't need to bother with that." 

"Anything else?" Harry asked. 

"Only that I really don't think you should do it." 

Without opening his eyes, he grinned. "Well, if I get lost out there and my body's an empty husk, you can say I-told-you-so." 

"This isn't funny, Harry." 

"I'm going to try now," he said. 

"How will we know if it works?" asked Ron. 

"We'll know," Hermione said. 

"Right." Harry took several slow, deep breaths and tried to blank his mind. He found this to be considerably easier without Snape standing in front of him, smirking, about to dive into Harry's memories. 

Ron and Hermione went quiet, and all he could hear was the crackle of the flames. With his eyes shut, he became more aware of what he could feel  the warmth from the fire on the half of his body nearest the hearth, the couch soft and lumpy beneath him, the texture of his wand and pajamas. 

"_Astralio_," he whispered. 

At first he felt no different, but gradually a weightless sensation came to him, like half-remembered childhood dreams of flying. It was nothing like being on a broomstick, or riding a hippogriff or thestral. It was a subtle, wafting-upward feeling, as if he were made of some substance only slightly lighter than air. 

Harry opened his eyes, and was shocked to see the ceiling of the Gryffindor common room only inches away. He wheeled and looked down. 

There, below him on the couch, was Harry Potter. 

It was like the episode with the Time-Turner, seeing himself from outside, seeing himself almost with a stranger's eyes. That was him down there  tousled black hair, scar, glasses  fitter-looking than when he studied himself in the mirror  he was lean, not so skinny after all. 

But the Harry on the couch lay seemingly lifeless, his mouth slack, fingers curled loosely around his wand. A softly glowing silvery ribbon extended up from that slack mouth to where the Harry above was, undulating faintly as if in a breeze that no one could feel. 

As Hermione had warned, it was a bizarre, terrifying feeling and his first impulse was to rush back to the known safety and comfort of his body right away. He mustered his will and held fast, maintaining his spot by the ceiling, until he was fairly confident that he was all right, and then looked down again. 

Ron and Hermione were beside the couch. Hermione had her hands locked together and pressed to her face, and was nervously biting at her knuckles. Ron peered into Harry's face, looking worried. 

"Harry?" He reached out, and Hermione pulled him away. 

"Don't touch him, Ron. Don't do anything." 

"But he looks dead!" 

"I think that means it worked." 

"You mean he's " Ron slowly turned and looked up, searching all around the room. His gaze slid right over Harry where he watched from his high vantage point, and saw him no more than Ron had seen the thestrals. 

"He must be," Hermione said. "Harry  if you're there, if you can hear me, come back. This is too dangerous. Come back now." 

The room looked much the same as it always did, except for odd little glows here and there that he understood without explanation to be the residue of various bits of magic. He saw the auras enveloping his friends, too  like sparse clouds of tiny dust motes or sparks of light. Hermione's was a faint flicker of turquoise, and Ron's was a dark olive green. 

The Harry Potter on the couch had no aura at all, but on closer look Harry saw that his wand did. Just a bit, barely noticeable, but there, a brushing of iridescent amber like the powder from a moth's wing. He knew, again without explanation, that his wand was so much a part of him, so much an extension of himself, that it had absorbed this echo of his aura over the years. 

"Come back, Harry," Hermione urged. "You've got to come back." 

But this  this was fascinating. 

He found that he could move quite easily, just by thinking about the direction in which he wanted to go. He floated toward the fire, and the flames held no heat. He floated through a chair  he was, for a moment, swallowed up in the dark puffiness of its stuffing, and claustrophobia clutched at him  and came out the other side. 

"What do we do if he can't get back?" Ron asked anxiously. 

It was such a wonderful, unfettered sense of freedom that Harry didn't really _want_ to return. He could go anywhere like this, absolutely anywhere. Hogwarts was more open to him now than it was even when he used the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak. He could spy on the teachers, see what Snape was up to. 

The thought popped unbidden into his mind that he could probably even tour the girls' dormitories, undetected by the Chastity Charms. 

He could, in a wink, be at the Ministry of Magic. Even into the Department of Mysteries. 

Could he  could he, this way, go through the veiled archway and back? Could he see what was on the other side and still come out alive? 

But that wasn't why he was doing this. Not now. Not yet. 

Hermione had said that if he knew a person well, it would be like following a homing beacon. Harry decided to test it. The people he knew best were all here in Gryffindor tower, so he concentrated on Jane Kirkallen. 

The common room vanished. Stark fear seized him, but the next thing he knew, he was floating in a darkened room. He found that his astral eyes could see perfectly well even without light, letting him discern his surroundings. 

It was one of the Slytherin dormitory rooms, the same size and shape as Goyle's but with the furnishings arranged differently. There was a girl on the bed below him, sleeping in a dusty burgundy-colored aura. 

He drifted lower. It was Jane, her wooden snake-shaped ponytail ring on the nightstand and her dark hair spilling loose over her pillow. She looked peaceful and pretty. 

His dream recurred to him, and Harry would have shuddered if he'd had a body. What was he doing here? What was he doing in her room? Peeking at her while she slept  and after that horrible nightmare, no less. 

Harry soared up and away from her, retracing the silvery ribbon that shimmered in the shadows. 

So, he had indeed been able to find a person he knew. But what about a place? 

He had no sooner thought of it than he was there, in his unoccupied bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive. 

Finding himself in that room appalled him even though he had done it himself. It was his room all right, barren of his trunk and Hedwig's cage and all the wizarding things that made his stay with the Dursleys almost tolerable. He could hear Uncle Vernon snoring down the hall, and the sound of a television in Dudley's room. 

Going there had been a mistake, but he had at least proved that he could do it. He was tired, though. It didn't seem like such a thing, requiring the barest effort of thought, should be tiring at all  but it was. 

He knew that he should go back, that he was pushing himself. But he couldn't quit. Not yet. 

After checking to see that the silvery ribbon was still there, rippling in his wake, Harry steeled himself for what came next. He concentrated on someone he knew all too well, better than he'd ever wanted. Someone to whom he was bound by the chains of destiny. 

The house on Privet Drive dissolved around him just as Jane's room had done. 

"So, you wish to enter into my service," said the thin, chilling voice of Voldemort. 

A titanic shock of fright went through Harry. His initial thought was that the words were addressed to _him_. 

"I  I do, my Lord," a second voice answered. 

Reeling, Harry tried to recover his wits. 

He was in a long, narrow stone chamber with high, steeply-slanted ceilings and arrow-slit windows. Musty old tapestries hung on the walls, and the furniture was all heavy oak, claw-footed tables, and deep wing-back chairs. The whole place gave an impression of brooding age and great weight. 

At the near end of the room was a fireplace big enough to roast a hippogriff whole, though the flames were burned down to dull red embers beneath a bed of ashes. 

Coiled in front of the fireplace was a serpent, fifteen feet of patterned scales and supple strength. The serpent's eyes were open, fixed unblinkingly on a thronelike chair where Voldemort sat. He wore a simple loose black robe, and toyed idly with his wand. 

"Do your parents know that you are here?" he inquired, sounding amused. 

Harry's attention shifted to the second man, who swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking. 

"No, my Lord, but I am of age and not subject to their permission." 

Another shock walloped Harry as he recognized Nigel Nox, the seventh-year Slytherin boy who had left school on Sunday. 

"And you hope," said Voldemort, red eyes sweeping over him from head to toe, "to become one of my Death Eaters." 

"Like my Aunt Lethia before me," Nox said. 

"Ahh, Lethia." The sickly tone of nostalgia dripped poisonous honey from Voldemort's lips. "She was most dedicated to her work. The Angel of Death, they called her in the papers. So kind and loving as she put the Mudbloods out of their misery." 

A third man shuffled into view  Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew  balancing a tray against his body with the silver hand that Voldemort had given him after taking a pound of flesh. On the tray was a dark bottle, two smoke-crystal goblets, and a large silver coffer with a clasp shaped like the fanged head of a snake. 

"Wine, Mr. Nox?" he offered as Wormtail poured the goblets to the brim. 

"Thank you." Nox took one, and waited as Voldemort raised the other. 

Harry watched in silent horror as they clinked glasses and both drank. Moments later, Nigel Nox staggered, and fell to his knees. 

"Tsk, tsk," Voldemort said. "Trusting fool. Luckily for you, I have need of you. Wormtail, his sleeve." 

Nox made a feeble protest as Wormtail shoved the sleeve of his robes up past his elbow, baring his lower arm. Voldemort snapped open the silver coffer to reveal an array of what looked like torture implements or dental tools, and several small vials. 

"What  no, don't " moaned Nox. 

"But you wanted to become one of my Death Eaters," Voldemort said. His flat tongue slicked over his lips as he made his selection from the coffer. "And so, you must bear the Mark." 

He waved his wand, and the picks and needles flew up from the velvet lining of the coffer. They dived into the vials, emerging wet with ink, and darted into the tender white flesh of Nox's arm in a blurry succession of short, sharp jabs. Smoke rose from the wounds, cauterizing them before blood could even begin to flow. 

Screaming, Nox tried to pull away, but Wormtail held him. Harry dropped lower, hating the fact that he could touch nothing, do nothing to stop this. The Dark Mark, the skull with the snake protruding from its mouth, was being brutally burnt and tattooed into Nox's arm. 

Harry watched it take shape, its colors blood red, bile green, deathly black, sulfurous yellow. The ink did not seem so much to color Nox's skin as eat into it like acid, and sink deep. 

A slow, sinuous, rising movement distracted him from the awful spectacle. He saw the serpent, Nagini, swaying up from her coiled resting position. Her tongue shuttled the air, and her flat, reptilian stare had switched from Voldemort to  

She was looking directly at Harry, and he had no doubt that she could see him. 

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Six - Unresolved Issues ... coming Friday, February 4th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_   
_http: _


	26. Unresolved Issues

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Six - Unresolved Issues  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Harry spun away from the evil eyes of the snake and soared into the high reaches of the chamber.

"Nagini?" Voldemort queried. "What is it, my sweet?"

At once he realized his troubles were worse than he'd thought. The silvery ribbon, the one Hermione had said was his lifeline, his safe path back to his body, had faded until it was the barest wisp. It reminded him of his first pathetic efforts at producing a Patronus.

He sped toward it nonetheless.

"Is something there?" Voldemort's voice sharpened, and Harry knew without looking that his hated nemesis was following the serpent's gaze.

"I see nothing, my Lord," Wormtail said.

"_Revealarus_!" Voldemort screeched.

A soundless explosion burst from the end of Voldemort's wand and rolled outward in an expanding sphere. Harry felt a wave of turbulence catch him, toss him, and then he was plunging through blackness.

Once, when he was four years old, Dudley had crammed him into Aunt Petunia's clothes dryer and pushed the button. That had been like this was, a disorienting tumble of painful bumping and jarring, and a blast of superheated air.

And then, the barest glimmer- his ribbon, his lifeline. He found it and dove toward it, though it appeared to be dissolving all around him like wet tissue paper. He groped for it with his mind and snared something insubstantial but _there_, and it pulled him swiftly along.

Suddenly he was spiraling down through the familiar space of the Gryffindor common room, spiraling down toward his motionless body.

Ron was still there, and Hermione, both of them arguing anxiously over what they should do.

"It's all my fault," Hermione said, wringing her hands. "I never should have shown him that book! I never should have suggested it! I should have _known_ that nothing would do but for him to try, and never mind that it's magic far beyond our years!"

"He'll be back," Ron insisted. "He's got to come back."

"He's lost out there!"

"Well, what can _we_ do? Go after him?" Ron made to pick up _Mind-Journeys_, and Hermione batted it away.

"No, Ron! We've got to get someone."

"Who? Madame Pomfrey? Dumbledore?"

If rising up had been like one of those glorious dreams of flight, descending into his physical shell was like one of those terrible dreams of falling, the kind that makes you jerk awake with a cry, certain you're about to land with bone-crushing impact.

Harry dropped into himself and suffered a revolting moment of heaviness, weight, solidity, gross fleshy constriction. He had been weightless and airy and free, and now he was confined once more to this clumsy, earthbound mess of meat and bone.

"Just let me think for a minute," Hermione said.

"Hang on," Ron said. "Something's -"

"Ah!" Harry gasped, and opened his eyes.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "Oh, Harry, thank goodness!"

"You all right?" Ron offered a hand and helped pull Harry to a sitting position.

"I feel... slow," Harry said. "Sluggish. It's really... weird."

A sharp blow struck the side of his head.

"Ow! Hermione, that smarts!"

"What were you thinking? Scaring us like that!"

"But it worked. I went out."

"I know you went out! Why didn't you come back when I said?"

"Give him a break," Ron said. "Maybe he couldn't hear. Could you? What was it like?"

"I'll tell you, if Hermione promises to stop beating on me."

"I was just so worried!" she said.

Harry got up and walked around the room, trying to re-acquaint himself with having a body. His arms and legs felt like padded, jointed sticks not really attached to him at all. He thought of movies Dudley liked, in which men sat inside of giant robots and controlled them from a special console in the head, and that was what this was like.

"Blimey," Ron said. "Was it like Hermione said? With the auras and everything?"

"Exactly like she said." Harry flexed his fingers and blinked his eyes.

"I can't believe you really did it," Hermione said. "Just like that, on your very first go?" She frowned at the book. "I thought it was supposed to be major magic, challenging even to the most experienced wizard."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Harry said wryly. "By the way, snakes can see astral forms. At least, Voldemort's could."

They went pale.

"So you did find him?" Hermione whispered. "Did he catch you?"

"If he had, I wouldn't be here," Harry said. "I think I got out of there in time. But, listen! Nox was with him!"

"Nox?" Ron asked.

"Nigel Nox, that seventh-year, the one who had his mum and dad come for him on Sunday! He was with Voldemort. Wormtail was there, too. Nox was joining the Death Eaters!"

"He what?"

"He wasn't!" Hermione looked shocked. "When he was so afraid of this make-believe curse Malfoy's been spouting off about?"

"Think about it," Harry said. "Nox believed in that curse enough to leave school... maybe he decided that the only way he could keep himself safe from it was by siding with Voldemort. Or maybe he just reckoned that if he was doomed anyway, might as well be doomed for _being_ a Death Eater instead of just because he had an aunt who happened to be one."

"In for a Knut, in for a Galleon," Ron said. "Yeah, I can see that."

"You saw him? You're sure?" Hermione asked.

"I was there. In the room with them. Nox told Voldemort that he was of age and didn't need his parents' permission, and Voldemort offered him a glass of wine. It was drugged, and while Nox was addled, Wormtail grabbed him."

"Did they kill him?" Ron asked.

"Worse. They were putting the Dark Mark on his arm." Harry shuddered. "It was horrible. Tattooing it into him, or burning it, like with acid and molten fire... and the way that he _screamed_ ..."

"We're lucky Dumbledore is still here," Hermione said. "Should we go now, or wait until morning?"

Harry tapped the book. "Remember when Lupin told us how my dad, Sirius, and Pettigrew turned themselves into Animagi illegally? I bet this spell is right along those lines. Isn't it, Hermione?"

"I don't know the laws specifically," she said. "But it's not sixth-year level, I can tell you that."

"So what?" Ron said, shrugging. "Harry can do a Patronus, and that's advanced magic. He doesn't get in trouble for it. Didn't you even get a bonus point for it on your O.W.L.s? And it was Dumbledore's idea you learn Occlumency, which is advanced magic, too."

"Both of those are defensive," Harry said. "All he wants me to be able to do is protect myself. He doesn't want me fighting back."

"Using Astralmency to spy on people probably does fall under the Misuse of Magic statutes," Hermione said.

"Like it's a crime to spy on You-Know-Who?"

"A crime is a crime, Ron, no matter what the reason. No matter who does it, or whom it's done against. It's just as illegal for one of us to use, say, an Unforgivable Curse on a Death Eater as it is for them to use it on us."

"That's sure not stopping them," Ron said belligerently.

"But we're different. We're the good guys," Hermione said. "We _care_ about what's right and wrong, and about the law. The moment we stop, we become as bad as they are."

Harry, who had attempted the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange a few months ago, shifted uncomfortably. "Then we are, aren't we? If I do something against the law, it's still just as much against the law whether or not I go and tell Dumbledore about it. Breaking the law doesn't have to do with whether you get _caught_ or not. Face it, Hermione, we've broken the law lots of times."

"We have not!"

"Technically," he said, "in the eyes of the law, Sirius was a criminal when we helped him escape."

"He was innocent!"

"_We_ knew that, but -"

"And Dumbledore knew it, too," Hermione said.

"So Dumbledore was aiding and abetting us break the law," Harry said. "He was covering up for us. We did what was _right_... but it was still illegal. We broke into the Department of Mysteries. We've used magic away from Hogwarts. Always because we've been doing what was _right_ and not letting something as stupid as the _law_ get in our way."

"Well, what do you want to do, then, Harry?" She flung her hands in the air. "Do you want to go to Dumbledore, tell him, and get expelled?"

"Dumbledore won't chuck Harry out," Ron said. "I don't know what you're both so on about. Harry won't get in trouble. Harry never gets in trouble, not for anything big."

"And I hate it," Harry said. "Snape's right! I get away with things that no other student in this whole school could get away with, and why? Because I'm Harry Potter, and everyone thinks I'm so damned special! I'm sick of it! I wish I _would_ get in trouble once in a while."

"You don't mean that!" Hermione said, aghast. "And everything you've gotten away with, as you put it, has been for all the right reasons!"

"You're the one who just said that a crime is a crime, no matter what the reason."

She stopped, nonplussed. "But I didn't mean ..."

"Anyway, this is more important than whether or not we get in trouble," Harry said. "Dumbledore does need to know. What if Nox comes back to Hogwarts, have you considered that? He's still a student. He could come back, a full Death Eater right in our midst, and no one would know."

"Dumbledore would -"

"Maybe, Ron," Harry said, "the reason that Dumbledore seems to know most of what goes on around here isn't because he's a powerful wizard, but because he's got so many people around him who can tell him things."

"Harry, I'm so ashamed," Hermione said, looking at her feet. "Of course, you're right, this isn't about detention, or losing points, or even being expelled. This is bigger than just Hogwarts. Bigger than us. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"It's all right," he said.

"I've just been so ..."

"I know."

"What?" Ron asked.

"Upset," Hermione said in a small voice.

"Oh," Ron said. "Oh. That."

"We'll go see Dumbledore," Hermione said. "And -"

"No," Harry interrupted. "_I'll_ go see Dumbledore. I was the one who used the spell. So if anyone's going to get in trouble, it'll be me."

"But it's my book, and it was my suggestion, and I talked you through it!"

"But _I_ did it," Harry said. "What you can do, you and Ron both, is sit down and talk to each other."

Ron, who had been looking ill at ease, now looked positively horrified. "What, now?"

"Yes. Now."

Leaving them no more room for discussion, Harry crossed to the portrait hole and went out into the hall.

"Oh, bothersome boy, where are you going at this hour?" the Fat Lady asked irritably. "Don't expect me to wake up and be all cheerful just to let you back in."

"Sorry," Harry said.

"You shouldn't be wandering the halls in the middle of the night anyway," she said after him as he started away. "If the caretaker catches you, he'll give you something to be sorry about!"

"I'm sure he'll try," Harry replied.

He did not harbor much hope that Ron and Hermione really would talk over their personal troubles, but he intended to give them plenty of time for it if they actually did. Ten minutes later, he was at the stone gargoyle, having been fortunate enough not to encounter Filch or Mrs. Norris. He had seen Peeves at one point, hard at work loosening the doorknobs on all the classrooms on the fourth floor so that they would fall off as soon as anyone tried turning them, but Peeves was happily engrossed in his mischief and didn't notice Harry.

"Pepper Imp," he said.

The gargoyle didn't move.

"Cinnamon Chew?" Harry tried.

Then he hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. He had forgotten- it seemed like the memorial service had been weeks ago- Dumbledore was in the hospital wing with a broken hip.

Madame Pomfrey wouldn't be about to let Harry in to disturb Dumbledore in the middle of the night. He milled around for a while, trying to think of what else he could do, but no brilliant ideas came to him.

Finally, he gave up and trudged back to Gryffindor tower, reluctant to walk in on a scene between Ron and Hermione. He listened, didn't hear any shouting, and approached the portrait hole.

"You again," grumbled the Fat Lady. "What ever happened to a good old-fashioned curfew? A portrait used to be assured a decent night's sleep around here ..."

But when he gave the password, she swung open and let him in.

Hermione was sitting by the fire, her eyes red-rimmed as if she'd been crying. _Mind-Journeys_ was open on her lap. There was no sign of Ron.

"How'd it go?" she asked breathlessly.

"Not so great... he's in the hospital wing. I couldn't even get in to see him."

"Oh, that's right!" sighed Hermione.

"I'll try tomorrow." He sat down. "You're reading up on Astralmency? Planning to try it?"

"Not me," she said. "You know I hate flying."

"It's not the same as flying on a broom."

"Still, it would scare me to death."

"Where's Ron?"

"He went to bed."

"So you didn't talk? Hermione ..."

"We tried to talk," she said. "But what was there to say, really?"

"A lot! Did you work it out?"

"Work what out?" She made a helpless little gesture. "He knows how I feel. I told him that the next step was up to him. I said that if he didn't like me, he should just say so and that would be the end of it."

"And did he?"

"He said he didn't _not_ like me, and went into the usual stuff about how was he to have known, I never let on, he had no idea I fancied him." She sniffled. "He's so hopeless, Harry, and I don't know what to do."

Unfortunately, Harry didn't know what to do either. His headache had returned, as much now from lack of sleep as anything else. He longed for his bed- not even the thought of the nightmare recurring could deter him- but couldn't very well walk off and leave Hermione sitting here miserable.

An hour later, though, they had batted around useless ideas and come up with no solutions, and the only thing they knew for sure was that _Ron_ had to be the one to decide what he wanted.

"We need to get some rest," he said to Hermione. "Maybe things will look better in the morning."

"It _is_ the morning," Hermione said, pointing at an eastern window, where the sky was already a paler shade.

Harry groaned, and dragged himself off to bed. His head had no sooner hit the pillow, it seemed... his eyes had no sooner shut... than Neville was shaking him awake and telling him he had missed breakfast and was going to be late for Charms.

All day, wherever he went, he heard people talking about what had happened in the chapel the night before. Edmund Hawke had been taken away to St. Mungo's, none the worse for wear from his burns but apparently in such great mental distress that the Healers had to keep him in a Full Body-Bind.

After classes on Wednesday, Harry went up to the hospital wing, only to be told by Madame Pomfrey- with an indignant sniff that said it had been _very_ much against her orders- that Dumbledore was back in his office.

This time, the stone gargoyle opened, and the spiral stairs revolved, carrying Harry up. A bright golden light and heat grew as he ascended, so he was not surprised when one of the aureliphim blocked the final doorway.

"I need to see the headmaster," Harry said.

"It's all right, Asaad," Dumbledore said. "Let him in."

The fiery lion-man stood back to allow Harry to pass. Dumbledore, wearing a silk paisley dressing gown and- strangely- bumblebee slippers just like the ones Colin Creevey owned, was propped on a couch with his leg elevated in a complicated network of straps that looked like a hammock woven by a drunken moth. A single candle provided unnecessary illumination on top of the light shed by Asaad's flaming wings.

Dumbledore was reading _A Treatise on the Treatment of Magical Non-Humans_, holding the book and turning the pages with his wand while he sipped from a mug of warm milk with a cinnamon stick in it. A plate of chocolate cookies sat on a table beside his couch. The surface of the desk was covered with get-well cards, flower arrangements, and baskets of treats from members of the Ministry, faculty, and students.

As Harry came in, he marked his place with a discarded phoenix feather.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hi, Professor. Or should it be Minister?"

"Either will do, I think."

"How are you feeling?"

Dumbledore scowled at his elevated leg. "Madame Pomfrey mended the bone in a thrice, but she's very strict about me keeping off it for a few days. Please, sit down. Cookie? Spiced milk?"

"No, thanks." Harry sat in the chair Dumbledore conjured, feeling more awkward now than he had when he'd been in here the other day with Ron, Luna and Jane. He decided to just get it out in the open and over with. "My scar hurt last night. First time in ages. It hurt fit to split my head."

"I see. Was the pain accompanied by any other experiences?"

"A dream, but... not one of those dreams like I had last year. And that's not what I came to talk to you about. It's Nigel Nox, Professor. From Slytherin? He's joined Voldemort."

Above his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "You're certain?"

"I saw him."

"In this dream?"

"No." Harry regarded Dumbledore levelly. "Through Astralmency."

To Dumbledore's credit, surprise only flickered briefly in his eyes. "Astralmency, you say."

"I thought that since my scar hurt, it had to mean that Voldemort was up to something," Harry said. "So I went out, using Astralmency, to try and find out. I still don't know what set my scar off, but I saw Voldemort. Pettigrew was with him, and his snake, and Nox."

He related what he had observed, and every word that they'd said. Dumbledore listened in grave silence. When Harry finished, for a long time Dumbledore said nothing, dunking a cookie into his mug of milk until it crumbled wetly apart.

"Well," Dumbledore said at last, "It is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected."

"You knew he'd go to Voldemort?"

"I've feared all along that certain students might be drawn over into his support, yes. For some, it is a strong family tradition. For others, the temptation of power, wealth, personal gain, or revenge prove adequate reasons."

"Why do you let them come to Hogwarts, then?" Harry asked. "Why do you let them stay, and learn to use their magic, when you know they're only going to use it against you?"

"Because I believe that we all have, within ourselves, the ability to rise above our bloodlines, or our base greed and ambition. I believe in the good that lies in each and every one of us, and that it is, as I've said to you before, the choices that we make that determine our future."

"So you give people like Snape a second chance," Harry said bitterly.

"Professor Snape, yes," Dumbledore said, giving Harry a pointed look. "And people like Remus Lupin. I admitted him to Hogwarts as a student, I brought him back years later as a teacher, knowing he was a werewolf but trusting in his better nature to help him rise above his unfortunate circumstances."

"You knew he was all right, though," Harry said.

"People like Rubeus Hagrid, as well," Dumbledore said. "I petitioned with Professor Dippett to have _him_ admitted to Hogwarts as a student, knowing he was half-giant. I brought him back here as groundskeeper when he was released from Azkaban -"

"But you knew he hadn't been responsible for the basilisk!"

"At the time, I had only Hagrid's word for it. There were those who seriously questioned my decision."

"That's different!"

"How is it different, Harry?"

"Because Lupin and Hagrid are good! Snape is -"

"_Professor_ Snape," Dumbledore cut in, stressing the title strongly, "has demonstrated his loyalty to me time and again."

"How?" Harry asked bluntly.

"That is between the two of us."

"He was a Death Eater!"

"I must ask you to let this matter drop, Harry. Suffice to say, I have no reason to suspect that Severus Snape is anything but true to the Order, and to me."

"You always defend him!"

"Funny," Dumbledore said, though he hardly looked amused. "He accuses me of doing the same for you."

Harry rose. "Fine. I didn't come here to talk about Sn- about _Professor_ Snape anyway. I came to tell you about my scar, and about Nox. I've done that. So, good night, Headmaster."

"Sit down, Harry."

"Why? You've got what you needed from me."

Asaad rumbled low and menacing in his throat, and the flaming corona around him brightened.

"I remember when I used to have your trust and liking as well," Dumbledore said softly.

Guilt and pain pierced Harry, but he struggled not to show it. "Yeah... I remember that, too."

"You feel badly used."

"I wonder why."

"I'd like the opportunity to explain."

"You don't need to explain," Harry said. "I understand. Maybe you think that I can't, since I'm only sixteen, too young to be burdened, too young to be able to cope with the ugly truth. Too young to be of any real help to anybody."

"Harry, sit down."

"I should go to the library. I have homework."

"Everything I've done, I have done with your best interests at heart," Dumbledore said.

"No." Harry looked him squarely in the eye. "You _think_ you have, you think you're doing me a favor by protecting me. I may only be sixteen, but I'm not a child."

"You're acting like one. Again."

"Phineas, please," Dumbledore said, not looking up at the portrait. "Stay out of this."

"Why you let that insolent pup speak to you in such a tone ..." Phineas Nigellus said. "If I were headmaster and got that kind of lip from a student, I'd switch him within an inch of his life, and then hex him for good measure."

"Phineas, hush!" Dilys Derwent snapped. "He told you to stay out of it!"

"What can I do, Harry, to convince you?" asked Dumbledore, now ignoring all of the portraits as several other headmasters and headmistresses woke up and began bickering and scolding Phineas. "How can I make up for last year? How can I win back the regard you once held for me?"

Harry saw genuine, heartfelt sorrow in Dumbledore's expression. He wanted to be able to give an answer, but there didn't seem to be one.

"It can't be the way it was," Harry said. "Too much has happened. Too much has changed. You spent all last year ignoring me for my own good, when you could have at least let me know why. You keep things from me until I find out for myself, and then make excuses to justify why you never told me before... when I know that, if I _hadn't_ found out on my own, you might _never_ have told me."

"That isn't true. I would have when the time was right."

"When _you_ thought that the time was right. Because no matter what I do, no matter how much I accomplish, it'll never be good enough. You'll tell yourself that I'm still too young, or that it would hurt me too much. But didn't you ever think that it hurts worse to find out later that people have been keeping things from you? Because they- people you cared about, people you loved and respected and trusted- didn't think you could handle it?"

"Harry, as I tried to tell you at the end of last year, I am deeply sorry for that. I have apologized. Is it so hard to gain your forgiveness?"

"Why is it so important to you? My forgiveness... why do my feelings count now? I told you about my scar and what I saw, so it's not like you're missing out on any information."

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "I see. You think that I only care about what you can tell me, that I'm interested in using you to keep tabs on Voldemort and little else."

"Essentially, yes," Harry said. "Yes, sir, that is what I think. And I don't mind, but I'd rather we were honest about it! Let me just be your informant and we can drop the rest of the pretense."

"It is no pretense. If you were not special to me, would I allow you the lenience that I have? The preference I've shown you has drawn its share of criticism over the years."

"I didn't ask for preference!"

"Yet you have never hesitated in taking advantage of it," Dumbledore said.

Harry looked away, knowing it was true. He had grown used to the idea that he could pretty well do as he pleased and not get in too much trouble for it. Going all the way back to his first year, when Dumbledore had known about his efforts to unmask the would-be thief of the Sorcerer's Stone. He, Ron and Hermione had broken rules right and left in the pursuit of that goal, and Dumbledore had rewarded them for it in the only way that had mattered to them at the time- by giving them enough points to win the House Cup... better, to wrest the House Cup away from Slytherin.

It had been the same, over and over, ever since. He tried to tell himself that it was because Dumbledore knew that Harry was, when all was said and done, only trying to do the right thing. But there had been times when Harry had acted for purely selfish reasons... when Snape had been right about him.

"I would like you to trust me again, Harry," Dumbledore said. "If that is not yet possible, I would at the very least like you to stop being so angry with me."

"I'll try," Harry said, head down.

"And I, for my part, will try to be more forthright with you in the future. Are we agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

When a lengthy pause ensued, Harry looked up and saw that Dumbledore was holding out one long-fingered hand. He noticed how old and frail that hand looked, how old and worn Dumbledore looked, lying there wizened and sickly, and the feelings of guilt stabbed at him again.

Didn't Dumbledore have enough problems? Voldemort returned, Death Eaters and dementors on the loose, the entire wizarding world in an uproar... and then Hogwarts students dying hideously... the Minister of Magic murdered... Dumbledore himself forced to step in at the Ministry right at a time when Hogwarts needed him... a broken hip... and here was Harry, adding to his woes with a great bitter unloading of bile.

Harry clasped that old, frail-looking hand. It felt fragile and brittle in his grasp, like hollow bird-bones encased in a dry glove.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"So am I," Dumbledore said.

Something in the way he said it gave Harry a chill. It sounded almost like a good-bye.

"Um... about the Astralmency ..." he ventured as he let go of Dumbledore's hand.

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you to exercise all due caution with it," Dumbledore said. He smiled. "And well done, Harry. It never would have occurred to me to suggest you explore that branch of magic. So few wizards have ever made successes of it that it has become something of a lost art."

"Why? I mean... it wasn't hard at all. How come so many people have trouble with it?"

"Fear, I imagine. Fear is the greatest chain we have, holding each of us back in different ways. For you, Harry, fear became something you long ago learned to face, overcome, and set aside. You've never let it stand in your way. Not since you faced the true horror of the dementors, and found that even they, the embodiment of fear itself, can be dealt with."

"So I was able to do Astralmency because I wasn't afraid?"

"_Were_ you afraid?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not really. It sounded dangerous, but -"

Dumbledore raised one thin finger. "There you have it. You did not let the risk stop your attempt."

"Does that make me brave, or stupid?" Harry asked. "Or just overconfident?"

"Some of all three, I would say." Dumbledore's smile widened. "And now, Harry, we should say good night. Enjoy your dinner. Myself, I have Mother Hazel's Finest Marrowbone Broth to look forward to. Madame Pomfrey insists that it strengthens the bones. It also, alas, has all the zest and flavor of bilgewater."

Harry moved past the stern Asaad, feeling the lion-man's burning eyes follow him with a focused intensity that reminded him of a time Dudley scorched him on the arm with a magnifying glass one hot summer's day on Privet Drive.

He let himself out of Dumbledore's office and headed for the Great Hall, not sure if he felt better or worse.

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Dark Arts Club.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_  
_http: _


	27. The Dark Arts Club

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Dark Arts Club  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

The Quidditch game was rescheduled for Saturday, and in the days leading up to it, life at Hogwarts was almost normal. As normal as it ever was, anyway, what with Peeves smearing grease on the castle stairways so that seven people ended up in the hospital wing with bumps, bruises and fractures.

Dumbledore was able to leave his sickbed on Friday, and returned to the Ministry with his honor guard of aureliphim. Malfoy seemed more anxious than ever now that he was the only one- to his knowledge, anyway - left at Hogwarts with Death Eaters for relatives. As for Ron and Hermione, they'd come to an agreement that let them still function as friends, albeit somewhat stiltedly, and avoid all talk of romance, dates, and who fancied whom. Ron was just as happy to ignore the entire subject, or would have been had Luna not begun giving Colin love-notes in class to deliver to him. Colin was glad to oblige, under the erroneous assumption that he was helping patch things up.

Harry saw Jane several times over those few days, but only came face to face with her once. He didn't have to feign his astonishment when she walked right up to him in the hallway outside of the Potions classroom Friday afternoon, as the fifth-years were leaving and the fourth-years were about to enter.

"Could I talk to you for a moment?" she asked, hugging her books to her chest like a knight's shield.

"Um... sure," Harry said, baffled. He saw his classmates murmuring curiously to one another, and hers doing the same... and Draco Malfoy watching with close attention.

Jane led him a little way down the hall, beneath a snarling statue of a dragon's head with a torch blazing in its open, toothy jaws.

"What are you doing?" Harry whispered, setting his back to the quizzical crowd. "I thought you didn't want anyone seeing you talk to me."

"This time it's all right," Jane said.

"But Malfoy -"

"It was his idea."

"What?"

He hadn't had a chance to speak to her since having that hideous dream, and was pulled in two directions now that he was with her again. On the one hand, he remembered the feel of her in his arms, the way he had kissed her, and was dizzy with reckless attraction. On the other, he thought of the rotting corpses of his friends, the Death Eaters, and Voldemort saying, "She's yours now... and that makes you mine!" and went clammy with dread.

"Draco suggested it," Jane said. "He thinks that since you rescued me, you'll feel kindly toward me. And that I can use that to our advantage."

"Oh, does he?" Harry caught himself before he could turn and throw Malfoy a scathing look.

"He thinks that if I can get close to you," Jane said, "I might find out if you know who's put this curse on the descendants of Death Eaters."

"Doesn't he think _I_ did it?"

"He thinks you're too honest and noble for something that underhanded." Jane smiled that hard little cynical smile. "He thinks that if you had it in for the children of Death Eaters, you wouldn't bother to make it look like an accident or suicide."

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment," Harry said. "Jane, does... How much does Malfoy know about you?"

"I've never told him about my father, and he's never said anything to make me suspect that he does. If anything, he's always been a bit haughty toward me before, believing me to be a half-blood."

"A bit haughty? Draco Malfoy?"

"They say I must be all right because I did get put into Slytherin, half-blood or no... so the wizard blood I _do_ have must be the right sort." She laughed. "If only they knew, huh? So they've always put up with me tolerably well."

"And now Malfoy wants to use you to get to me?" Harry shook his head. "But if he doesn't think I'm the one behind the curse- not that I even believe there _is_ one- why would he think I know who is?"

"Because you're the great Harry Potter, with your nose into everyone's business at Hogwarts."

"Wonderful."

"I need to be quick. I'm only supposed to be thanking you- sincerely, mind- for pulling me out of the river, and saving Eddie's life too. There's a Dark Arts Club meeting on Sunday. I thought I might bring the mirror, and hide it in the room ahead of time, to let you see for yourself what goes on. Professor Snape agreed to teach us some new curses."

"Has anyone in Slytherin heard from Nox?"

"An owl this morning," she said. "Why?"

"What did it say? Is he coming back?"

"Not for a few weeks."

"Look out for him." Harry heard the fourth-years going into the dungeon classroom, and knew he had to end this conversation before Snape poked his head into the hall to see what was keeping Miss Kirkallen. "I have to go."

"Harry?"

"What?"

"Is everything all right? You've been looking at me very oddly these past few days. It's what I told you, isn't it? About my mother, and... and what happened to her."

"No. No, Jane. Well... I had a... bad dream about... never mind. It doesn't matter." He cast a quick glance and saw that the hallway was empty except for Draco Malfoy, who was lingering on the stairs pretending- badly- to tie his shoe. "We're taking too long. Even if it was his idea, you don't want him getting suspicious."

"Right." She bit her lower lip and looked up at him. "'Bye, Harry."

"'Bye."

She hurried around him and into the classroom. Snape's voice oiled out. "How nice that you could join us, Miss Kirkallen. Better late than never." Then the door closed with the same hollow, echoing bang that proclaimed another batch of students was in for an hour and a half of Potions.

"A new person in your fan club, Potter?" drawled Malfoy as Harry caught up to him on the stairs.

And then it dawned on Malfoy- Harry saw it rise in his eyes- that it was just the two of them here in this dank and gloomy dungeon stairwell. He stumbled back a step, reaching for his wand.

Harry made a disgusted snort. "Save it, Malfoy. I'm not about to jinx you."

"I'm not afraid of you," Malfoy said, turning the reaching motion into a pretext of straightening his sleeves.

Reckoning he could do his part and play along, Harry said, "So, who is she?"

"Who?"

"The girl. Kirkallen. Jenny?"

"Jane," Malfoy said, rolling his eyes scornfully.

"Sure. Jane."

"She's no one _you_ need bother with. I don't know why she felt she had to thank you for anything." Malfoy did the eye-roll again. "But then, her father's a vicar, so I suppose some of those Muggle mannerisms must have rubbed off."

"Her father's a Muggle?"

"She's still a Slytherin!" Malfoy said sharply. "So you can wipe that smirk off your face, Potter."

"Didn't know I was smirking."

A meow from the top of the stairs made them look up, to where Mrs. Norris crouched with her yellow eyes glinting and her tail switching back and forth. A half-second later, Filch appeared behind her.

"You're tardy," he snarled. "Run along and be quick about it."

"Mark my words, Potter," Malfoy hissed. "Stay away from Jane Kirkallen, or you'll regret it."

On Saturday, the day of the rescheduled Quidditch match, the sky was blanketed with fluffy grey clouds and a cold wind whipped down out of the north. But it was nothing compared to the previous week's maelstrom, and Harry was glad to get out on his Firebolt.

Within the first five minutes, he knew that Gryffindor was going to win. There was no question. The Slytherin team's hearts just weren't in it. Malfoy sat on his broom casting fearful glances in all directions, not looking for the Snitch but for the fatal accident he was sure must be bearing down on him. The Beaters, up from the reserves to replace Crabbe and Goyle, tried hard to prove themselves, but the rest of the team lacked any sort of cohesion.

At first, the Gryffindors in the stands relished this poor performance. But it quickly became apparent that there was no fun in taunting such dispirited foes. Nor was there any joy in the eventual victory.

Harry wasn't the only one on his team to just want to get it over with and put the Slytherins out of their collective misery. He saw that desire on Ginny's face, and even in Ron's. Dennis and Flash, of course, were whooping and hollering as they sped around.

The Snitch fluttered into view by the bottom of one of the goal hoops. Harry dived for it with relief, thinking it was a mercy. Malfoy made a token effort to follow him, stopped after fifty yards, and only nodded sourly when Harry's fingers closed around the little golden ball.

"Ten minutes?" Flash Gresham complained as they trooped toward the team changing room. "That's got to be one of the shortest games on record."

"We won, didn't we?" Ginny said.

"We could have stomped them into the ground," Dennis said. "Flash had already scored three times, and you scored twice. Why'd you have to catch it so fast, Harry? You know Malfoy wouldn't have seen it if it was right in front of his nose."

Harry didn't reply, and after a bit grumbling, Dennis finally let the matter drop. They changed back into their regular clothes, and the others headed up to the castle while Ginny stayed to help Harry put the uniforms away.

"They don't need much cleaning," she said, in an effort to look on the bright side.

"That's something, anyway," Harry said.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I wanted to get the game over with," he said.

"Not that. About Jane Kirkallen."

"Oh." Harry looked around, saw no one else, and turned to Ginny. "What?"

"Are you and she ...?"

"Why are you asking me? Aren't you the expert on all that stuff?"

"Well, I have my own ideas, sure," Ginny said. "I just wanted to hear it from you. It caused a stir yesterday when she talked to you outside of Potions. When Annie Aubrey found out about it, she was practically in tears."

"Annie who?"

"Aubrey, from Hufflepuff. She says she asked you to the Yule Ball when you were a fourth-year and you cut her dead so fast she's never had the nerve to speak to you again."

Harry remembered a curly-haired Hufflepuff third year, and twitched guiltily. "It wasn't like that... I was trying to figure out a way to ask Cho. As for Annie, I didn't even know who she was. She surprised me, coming up to me like that. Are you telling me that she still ..."

"Yeah," Ginny said, laughing and shaking her head. "She's had a crush on you almost as long as I have. Had. Damn. _Had_." She dropped a pile of knee and elbow pads, and talked faster as she scrambled to gather them up. "One of those adoring-from-afar kind of things, pining over you, writing your name on her book covers, keeps a picture of you on her nightstand, sighs dreamily whenever you walk by, that sort of thing."

"Annie?"

"Of course, Annie, who do you think?" Ginny, he noticed, had the same problem as Ron- when she tucked her hair back out of her face, he saw that her ears had gone bright pink. "She knows she doesn't have a shot at you- or Prince William or Jude Law, either, for what that's worth... who's Jude Law, anyway?... but it doesn't stop her wishful thinking."

"He's an actor," Harry said off-handedly. "What's this got to do with Jane?"

"Only that now most of our year is talking about it. How you rescued her from drowning, and now she's in love with you and it's one of those star-crossed romances."

"People really think that?"

"That, or Malfoy's put her up to it."

"He has." Harry told her about his conversation with Malfoy in the dungeons. "But he warned me away from her, like he knew that the second he did, I'd only be more interested. Reverse psychology, they call it."

"Did it work?"

"Does it matter?"

"Quit being so defensive, Harry. I'm trying to help."

"Thanks, but I don't need help. You know who needs help? Ron."

"Ron's needed help for years," Ginny said.

"Hermione, then."

"I've decided that the best thing I can do for Ron and Hermione is stay out of it," she said wisely. "They've got to work this out between them."

"But I'm fair game, am I?" Harry asked. "You can meddle in my love life all you like?"

"Can I? Gosh, Harry, thanks!" Her grin turned devilish, a Fred-and-George grin if ever Harry had seen one, and apprehension tightened his throat.

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"So there is something with you and Jane?"

He sat on a bench and leaned his head against the wall, gazing upside-down at a poster above his head showing Chasers zipping along in labeled formations. He took a deep breath. "Yeah."

The levity left her voice. She sat down across from him. "Want to talk about it? I know you can't have a serious conversation with Ron or Hermione on this subject, not with them so caught up in their own mess."

"You probably already know everything I could tell you."

"Humor me."

"It's... complicated, Ginny."

She cocked her head. "Where've I heard that before? Oh, right, when we were discussing Lupin and Tonks! _That_ complicated?"

"Kind of. I can't be with Jane. Not here. Not now."

"But you want to be."

"Sometimes. But then... other times... it's not anything Jane's done, you have to understand that, nothing Jane has any control over... but there's... a problem."

"What kind of problem, Harry?"

He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and pushed the heels of his hands into his temples. "I tell myself that it shouldn't matter... it was a long time ago and it doesn't have anything to _do_ with her... nothing _real_... she can't help it... and it doesn't change who she _is_... but then I start wondering about it ..."

Ginny moved to the bench next to him and rubbed her knuckles across his shoulderblades and spine, pressing so hard that it almost hurt and felt wonderful at the same time. "I swear, I won't tell anyone."

"I know you wouldn't."

"Not even Mum, if that's what's on your mind."

"It was, a little."

"So get it off your chest. You'll feel better. Do you think I haven't seen how you've been lately? Carrying around some huge secret that's eating away at you?"

"It shows?" He looked around at her.

"Not that much. Other people aren't as observant as I am."

"Sometimes I think _eagles_ aren't as observant as you are."

"Well?" she prompted.

Harry closed his eyes. She was right... it would be good to tell someone, to have someone who would listen without being involved. But it wasn't his secret to tell.

"I appreciate it, Ginny... I really do. And please don't think that it's because I don't trust you. I trust you more than anyone. But Jane told me in confidence, and I can't betray _her_ trust, so I've got to keep it to myself. I'm sorry."

"Always so noble," she said lightly, though he could tell that she was disappointed. She slapped him chummily on the back and got up. "Remember, though, if you do need someone to talk to -"

"I will."

The Gryffindor victory was a trifle flat and hollow, so the celebration in the common room after dinner that night was fairly subdued. Harry turned in early, and got up equally early Sunday morning to do his homework.

Now that Ginny had mentioned her, Harry was uncomfortably aware at mealtimes throughout the day of Annie Aubrey, the curly-haired Hufflepuff girl. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings by turning her down so abruptly when she'd asked him to the Yule Ball... he hadn't even known her, and the idea that there might be other girls like her, harboring hidden crushes, made him feel strange.

Sunday evening, he went back to the fourth-floor study carrels, with his mirror tucked inside the front cover of _Active Magical Defense_. He stepped into the bubble of the Silencing Charm, and arranged his desk to look like he was deeply involved in his work, the mirror shielded from view if anyone happened to pass behind him.

"Jane?" he whispered.

The dark glass cleared, revealing her room as he had only seen it before when he was using Astralmency. He saw the top of her nightstand, the mirror evidently propped up, and next to it was a gold-framed miniature photograph- not a wizarding photo, but a traditional Muggle one- of a woman with honey-colored hair, a heart-shaped face, and light blue eyes filled with sadness.

The nightstand drawer was open, and in the very bottom of his field of vision, Harry could see the ebony box that Jane had clubbed Kreacher with that night in the Leaky Cauldron. A large tufted quill, bottle of ink, and several scraps of parchment were scattered around the box.

Jane moved into view, tying her hair back into her customary ponytail and threading it through the wooden ring shaped like a snake. She had the look of someone who was screwing up her courage for an unpleasant but necessary task. When she turned and her gaze fell upon the mirror, she stifled a gasp.

"Oh!" she said. "Harry. Hi." She crossed the room, and as she picked up the mirror with one hand, he saw her use the other to put the photograph in the drawer and slide it quickly shut.

"Was that your mother?" he asked gently.

"It's the only picture I have of her."

"She's beautiful."

"Thank you."

But what was going through his mind was too horrible to say. _You look just like her... except for your eyes and your hair... which are both dark... like..._

No. No, he couldn't say that. Would never say that. Not that she'd need to hear it from him anyway. Even if she never had before, after what Dilys Derwent had said, Harry was willing to bet every Galleon in his Gringotts vault that Jane had spent hours poring over that photograph, marking the differences between herself and her mother.

"The meeting starts soon," Jane said. "I was just about to go and find a place to put the mirror. I'm not sure how much you'll be able to see, but at least you'll hear what's going on."

"There might be another way to do this," Harry said, thinking again of the Astralmency. "One that wouldn't risk getting you in trouble. The only thing is, I'm not sure how long it lasts, how long I'd be able to sustain it. But it'd do away with any chance that someone might find the mirror."

"I've put an Aversion Charm on it," she said. "So that no one else will notice it, even if they see it."

"All right," Harry said. "If you're sure."

"Of course I'm not sure... I don't even want to go, to tell the truth. I can hardly stand being in the same room with him."

"Who, Malfoy?"

"Professor Snape," Jane said in a low voice. Harry's view wobbled as if in an earthquake, and he realized it was because she was trembling. "Ever since you told me... Harry... I don't even like to think about it... but he... he could have been one of them. He could be... he could be my ..."

"It doesn't matter!" Harry said forcefully. "Are you hearing me, Jane? It doesn't matter."

"But what if he _is_?"

"I don't think he could be," Harry said, dragging the words out of himself like anchors from some deep sea. "It goes against the grain to say anything good about Snape, but I don't think even _he_ would... would have done that."

Her entire body seemed to slump, her eyes closed, and her breath fogged the glass as she exhaled. Harry could tell she wasn't convinced, and knew that there was not much to be taken positively in what he'd just said- "Nah, Snape's a right evil bastard, but even he's not as bad as your _real_ father."

"I'm sorry," he said. "That didn't come out exactly right."

"I should get out there," she said. "Other people will be showing up soon."

"You don't have to go," Harry said. "Not if it's only on my account. I want to know what's going on, yeah, but not if it's too much for you."

"It'd look funny if I stayed away," she said.

"Jane -"

"Shh, Harry." She smiled at him, but in that instant her eyes _were_ her mother's eyes, filled with pain and sadness.  
She slipped the mirror into the pocket of her robes and for a few minutes he could see nothing but dark fabric and a swaying sense of motion. He heard the muffled voices of other Slytherins in the rooms that she passed. And then light returned, showing him the heavy stonework and deep greens and snake motifs of the Slytherin common room.

"I got this idea from a book," Jane murmured, as she fitted the mirror inside the stuffed head of a dragon, which was mounted on the wall over the fireplace like a large huntsman's trophy. "Can you see the whole room?"

"Yeah," Harry said. His vantage point was eerily like being astral again, up and surveying the room from a high angle. The tinted glass of the dragon's eyes gave everything a burnt-umber cast, like an old sepia-toned photograph.

"That's good."

Jane seemed about to say more, but then behind her, from the hall leading to the rooms, three other Slytherins came in. She turned away from the fireplace and greeted them, taking a seat where she could, without it seeming too unusual, look up at the dragon's head.

Soon the common room was filled with people and chatter. Malfoy came in, still looking oddly incomplete without the bodyguard bookends of Crabbe and Goyle, and took what was clearly _his_ chair.

Moments later, Snape strode in. His black gaze swept the room. It passed over the dragon's head above the mantle, and Harry held his breath- this was it, the moment of truth. He was peripherally conscious that Jane's hands gripped the armrests of her chair with white-knuckle tightness. But Snape's eyes moved on, and Harry relaxed a little.

Pansy Parkinson, evidently acting as club secretary, self-importantly called them to order. She read the minutes of the last meeting, which Harry had already heard about from Jane, and then turned the floor over to Snape.

"It is time," Snape said, "to determine how serious each and every one of you are about this club. We are well past dabbling with jinxes that are mere tricks, pranks, physical inconveniences and minor disfigurements. The next step is causing actual damage. If any of you are feeling squeamish, you should leave now."

Not a one of them budged. Harry watched and listened intently as Snape taught them a Slashing Jinx- Harry had actually witnessed a younger version of Snape use it on his nemesis, James Potter, in the Pensieve- and had them practice on a row of stubby man-shaped homonculi lined up on a long table.

"Mr. Malfoy? You're first."

Malfoy stepped up, flicked his wand in a short, sharp motion, and said, "_Razorus_!"

A flash of orange light streaked from his wand and the chest of the homunculus at which he'd been aiming was suddenly split open in a bleeding wound. The homunculus screamed in ear-piercing agony, and several of the Slytherins blanched.

"Mr. Flint?" Snape prompted, unmoved.

Gulping, Tiberius Flint took his turn. And one by one, each of them flicked their wands at the row of manlike figures. Homunculus flesh parted, sometimes in little slits no worse than a paper cut, sometimes in great vicious gashes that severed limbs.

"Miss Kirkallen," Snape said, with a curling, smoky menace. "If you're not too soft-hearted?"

Jane, who had moved to the front of the line, gave him an astonished look. "Professor?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Miss Kirkallen," Snape said silkily. "I'm well aware that your temperament of late has been a trifle on the sentimental side."

Pansy Parkinson tittered. Malfoy smirked.

"_Razorus_!" she cried, and slashed her wand so violently that her homunculus was nearly cut in two at the waist. Panting, her eyes wild, she whirled defiantly to Snape.

"Very good," he purred, crossing his arms so that his hands vanished into the voluminous sleeves of his robe. "Now, while I have your attention, Miss Kirkallen, I believe I should address your recent behavior."

Everyone else perked up, and Harry got the clear impression that these sorts of public dressing-downs were very much a part of life in Slytherin House, as looked-forward-to and enjoyed as might be one of Dudley's favorite television programs.

"My behavior?" Jane asked.

"It has hardly failed to escape my notice that you have developed a certain, shall we say, _association_ with Harry Potter."

"He... he saved my life, sir," Jane said, head down. She wavered, then added firmly, "Just like he saved Edmund's."

"Oh, I see," Snape said. "Then perhaps I should reward him with a few more points, is that what you're saying?"

"No... I ..."

"Let me be very plain, Miss Kirkallen. I will not have you, or for that matter any other member of this House, entertaining any friendships, camaraderie, or least of all foolish schoolgirl infatuations with Harry Potter."

"It isn't like that," Jane said, visibly quaking now.

Harry felt a stinging in his hands and looked down to see that he had been clenching his fists so tightly that his nails had dug into his palms. He stared into the mirror again, furious as much at Snape as at his own helplessness to do anything about it.

"I have certain standards that I expect all of you, as Slytherins, to uphold," Snape said. "Those standards do not include excessive fraternization with members of other Houses, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor," Jane said.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" he snapped.

Jane raised her head. Snape loomed over her, sneering scornfully down the length of his hooked, oily nose. The other Slytherins had formed a loose ring around the pair of them, all but vibrating with interest and anticipation.

"If you think that I haven't heard the talk that's been going around, you are sadly mistaken," Snape said. "As Head of your House, it falls to me to correct your errant ways. I've thus far spared you the embarrassment of doing so outside of this room, but rest assured, if I hear any further rumors or you continue to carry on in an un-Slytherin-like fashion, I will not be so lenient."

"I am more Slytherin than you'll ever know," Jane said.

The others laughed derisively. Pansy scoffed, "As _if_!"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Are you really?"

Harry wanted to call out to her, tell her to quit now before she went too far, but he couldn't. "Jane, don't," he muttered under his breath. "It's not worth getting in trouble, not over this, not over me!"

Jane nodded in answer to Snape.

"Shall we have some proof of that?" He shook his long greasy hair back from his face, drew his wand, and pushed up his sleeves. The Dark Mark glared red and black on his forearm for all to see, and Malfoy especially gaped at it in fascination.

When she saw the Dark Mark, Jane's chest hitched and she seemed to waver for a moment. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. "What do I have to do?"

"Curse me," Snape invited. "Take your best shot. Prove to me that you have it in you. Prove that you're a true daughter of Slytherin House."

Harry had never imagined that Jane could move so fast. Evidently, neither had Snape, who had unwittingly used the single worst word he could have uttered.

She cried out in fury and struck the wand from his grasp with her free hand, a hard smack that sent it clattering off the hearthstones and almost into the fireplace. At the next instant, she slashed her wand. "_Razorus_!"

Orange light blazed. Snape's robes tore as a foot-long cut ripped diagonally across his chest. He jerked backward.

"_Razorus_!" Jane screamed. "_Razorus! Razorus!_"

Three more gashes split his skin- arm, stomach, and cheek- as if he were being attacked by an invisible foe wielding a rapier. Panic erupted among the watching Slytherins as their bleeding teacher flailed madly.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Blaise Zabini shouted.

Jane's wand flew up, and Blaise caught it, then caught Jane by the collar of her robe when it looked as if she might, bereft of wand, go after Snape with her bare hands.

"Let... go... let... me ..." Jane struggled.

"Easy, Zorro," Blaise said. "I think you proved your point."

"Oh, my God," breathed Harry, transfixed by the mirror. He was clutching the frame so hard it was in danger of breaking. He was at once horrified and exhilarated and amazed. "What did you do, what have you done? Oh, Jane!"

Snape straightened up, his torn robes hanging, blood running from the four slashes. He looked more hateful and livid than Harry had seen him in months.

Jane quit fighting and stood within the confining circle of Blaise's arms. Her hair had come loose from the ponytail and tangled around her face. Her chest was heaving, her breath whistling through clenched teeth.

Malfoy and the others stared from Snape to Jane as if they had never really seen either of them before.

"Well, Miss Kirkallen," Snape said. Harry was suddenly reminded of the way Lupin had looked after Macnair went at him with the silver-edged axe. The color had drained from his complexion, leaving him more sallow than ever. His robes were soaked with blood. "I seem to have misjudged you. Forty points. Ten per cut."

"You provoked her!" Blaise objected, and Harry wanted to cheer. "And now you're docking us points for it?"

"I am _awarding_ points, Zabini, if you don't mind," Snape snarled. "However, Miss Kirkallen, I'll also see you in my office for a week's detention starting tomorrow. You'll be no use to anyone until you learn to control your temper."

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Eight - Malfoy Maleficum ... coming Friday, February 11th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	28. Malfoy Maleficum

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Malfoy Maleficum  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

An hour later, Jane returned to the deserted Slytherin common room.

Harry, through the mirror, had watched the rest of the events unfold, still hardly able to believe what he had seen.

Snape had performed a series of Coagulating Charms on himself, and when they proved insufficient to entirely close the wounds, had gone begrudgingly off to visit Madame Pomfrey. He had impressed upon the Slytherins that he would be exceedingly displeased with anyone who mentioned "this little incident," and the look in his eye would have quelled a basilisk.

Once he was gone, however, the Slytherins spent several minutes exclaiming over what had happened. They treated Jane with an odd mixture of celebrity, notoriety, admiration and apprehension- a mixture that Harry had endured a few times in his own checkered school career. She had slipped away as soon as she could, obviously speechless at what she'd done, and gradually the rest of them had either left the dormitory or gone to their own rooms.

She took down the mirror and peered into it, almost as if hoping she wouldn't find him still looking back.

"Hi," he said softly.

"You saw everything, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

Jane bit her lip, and raised her fingers toward the glass.

"Wait!" Harry said. "Wait. Jane. Can you meet with me?"

"Harry, you saw what happened," she whispered. "I'm in trouble. I don't dare. If I'm seen with you, after this -"

"You won't be. I swear. Just for a little while. I need to see you in person. To know you're all right."

"But I'm not all right," she said.

"Snape's gone to the hospital wing," Harry said. "He won't know. Meet me on the stairs to the Owlery in ten minutes, please."

She nodded, then trailed her fingers down the glass. Harry's mirror went dark and showed him only his own reflection, still in the fourth-floor study carrel. He grabbed his books, dashed to Gryffindor tower, blew through the common room where several games of Exploding Snap and Gobstones were in session, grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map, stuffed them both under his robes, and headed out again before anyone could engage him in lengthy conversation.

Five minutes later, draped in the silvery shimmer of the Invisibility Cloak, he was outside the door to the Owlery. He could hear the rustle and hoot of the owls, smell the musty attic-smell of their feathers and dry droppings.

On the Marauder's Map, he saw a dot approaching. Jane came up the stairs, looked both ways, and then, thinking herself alone, folded into a sitting position on the steps and put her head in her hands.

Harry drew the cloak off in a ripple, mussing his hair. He walked silently down to her. "Jane?"

"How did you ...? Is that an Invisibility Cloak?"

He sat beside her. "It used to be my dad's. If anyone comes by, not that they will this late on a Sunday, we'll put it on. So you won't be seen with me. Like I said."

"I've ruined everything. I didn't _mean_ to attack him -"

"He deserved it," Harry said savagely. "If I'd been there, I'd've done the same thing."

"But I can't meet with you any more," Jane said. "Here. I've brought back your mirror." She held it, wrapped in a cloth, out to him.

Harry shook his head. "I want you to keep it."

"Harry, I can't. It's too much. I've dragged you too far into this mess already. I never should have... I knew it was a mistake ..."

"What are you talking about?" He took her hand, felt her resistance, and wouldn't let go. "What mess? If anything, I'm the one who's made your life difficult."

"Then we have to stop," she said. "Someday, maybe someday soon, you'll understand how wrong this is. How dangerous for you."

"For _me_?" he laughed. "Jane -"

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm tough," Harry said. "I can take it. What are friends for?"

"We can't _be_ friends anymore," Jane said despairingly. "We can't, Harry. I'm not worth it."

"I think you are."

"It's better to stop now. I never should have let it go so far."

"Why, Jane?" He tried to lift her chin and make her look at him, but she turned her head away. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"Something terrible. Something that'll make you hate me, and realize that you never should have gotten involved with the likes of me."

"I've told you, it doesn't matter!" Harry said. "It's not who your parents were. It's who _you_ are and what _you_ choose to do with your life!"

Now she did look at him, a deep and soulful look that rocked him to the core. She raised her hand as if to touch his face, but stopped inches away from contact. "If I could go back and choose to do things differently, I would. But that's impossible. No one can change the past. All we can do is... is muddle along, and try our best to do what we have to do. And hope that the people who really matter to us- people like you, Harry- can eventually find it in their hearts to forgive us."

She got up to leave.

Harry rose and held her arm. "Jane -"

"Whatever comes next," she said brokenly, "I never lied to _you_. That much was real, Harry. That much was truth."

"Don't go."

"I have to. This has to be good-bye."

Abruptly she turned, slipped from his grasp, and dashed down the Owlery stairs fleet and quiet as a wraith.

What was he supposed to do now? Ginny or Hermione would be able to tell him- acting all the while as if he were the world's biggest idiot for not knowing- whether, in this situation, he should go after her or not. He _wanted_ to go after her, but she'd made it pretty clear that she didn't want him to. Or had she? Was she already wondering why he wasn't rushing down the stairs after her, calling her name?

"Damn it," Harry grumbled, and bent to pick up his Invisibility Cloak where it lay on the steps.

The cloth-wrapped mirror was there, too, in the very spot where Jane had been sitting. She'd left it after all.  
He picked it up, shoved it in his pocket with the Marauder's Map, and set off after her. Maybe it was the right thing, maybe it wasn't, maybe she wanted him to, maybe she really had meant it when she said good-bye. He didn't know. Couldn't know. All that he _did_ know was that he had to follow her.

Almost at a dead run, he burst into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and there was Mrs. Norris, directly in his path. The cat wheeled, arching her back, hissing and yowling and spitting, yellow eyes lambent, teeth bared. She tried to run as Harry tried to jump over her, and wove a crazy path between his feet.

Harry made an ungainly leap without kicking her or stepping on her, landed badly, turned his ankle, and crashed full-length on the floor. He bashed his chin, skinned his elbow, and heard Filch hurrying toward them.

"What is it, my pet?" Filch asked as Mrs. Norris, fur bushed out on end, streaked to him and sprang into his arms. Her tail snapped back and forth. "Who's given you a fright? Is it that nasty Peeves again? I'll have the Bloody Baron on him, so I will ..."

Filch's beady gaze scanned the corridor, passing over Harry, who had managed in the very nick of time to pull his Invisibility Cloak over himself. He lay huddled beneath it, holding his breath, knowing that if Filch came this way, he would be bound to step on or trip over some part of his body. Mrs. Norris glared balefully, directly at Harry.

But Filch, stroking Mrs. Norris' ears and crooning to her, walked the other way. Harry waited until he was sure that the caretaker had gone, then got to his feet. His ankle gave a twinge and his chin and elbow stung. And it was too late to catch up with Jane.

Somehow, by breakfast on Monday morning, news of Snape's injuries had spread through the castle despite his injunction to the Slytherins. The most reliable source seemed to be the last couple of students who'd still been in the hospital wing after falling victim to Peeves' latest grease-on-the-stairs prank. Harry was relieved that Jane's name was not mentioned in connection with the pinkish line of healing scar visible on the Potion Master's cheekbone.

He tried to catch her eye a few times during the day, but Jane seemed determined to avoid him, and he didn't dare be too blatant in his efforts or else other people would have noticed.

Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts as afternoon lessons were wrapping up, once again arriving on the spinning disk of fire accompanied by his honor guard of aureliphim. He was also accompanied by two people, one of whom was a stern older woman with iron-grey hair and the straight-spine bearing of a military cadet, and the other of whom was Remus Lupin.

Not many of the students were overjoyed to see Lupin again. While he was widely regarded as one of the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers they'd ever had, his status as a werewolf tempered the warmth with which most of them had viewed him.

To his credit, he was not so generally shabby as usual. He was still a bit too thin and careworn, and perhaps not entirely recovered from his encounter with Macnair. But, wearing new robes of dark blue, neatly groomed, and carrying a fine leather case instead of the battered old one from before, he looked more prosperous and respectable than Harry had ever seen him.

Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione crowded forward to greet him, making sure everyone else saw that _they_ weren't afraid to shake his hand. Gwenna Golden did, too, though she also supplemented the handshake with a more-than-  
sisterly kiss on the cheek that made eyebrows go up all over Hogwarts.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked him, offering to carry his case. "It's excellent to see you!"

"Thank you, Harry," he said. "A favor for Dumbledore. He'll explain at supper."

"You look wonderful, Professor," Ginny enthused.

He smiled at her. "Thank you as well, Ginny. Ah, and there's Severus... who laid his face open?"

"Dunno," Ron said, disgruntled. "All anyone'll say is that it was a Dark Arts Club accident."

Snape, for his part, looked as happy to see Lupin as he might have been to find half a worm in his apple.

Once they'd all taken their places in the Great Hall for dinner, with the aureliphim positioned in the same spots by the doors and at the ends of the staff table, Dumbledore went to the podium.

"I am very pleased to announce the appointment of two new temporary positions to the school faculty," he said. "Since my current duties keep me so much away from home, Mr. Remus Lupin has generously agreed to step in and assist your Acting Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, with the many countless boring and tedious administrative chores. Please join me in welcoming him back to Hogwarts."

Fervent applause came from the section of the Gryffindor table where Harry and his friends sat; scattered and diminishing applause came from the others. Snape leaned over to mutter something darkly to Lupin, which Lupin passed off with a wry smile and a shrug.

The woman with the iron-grey hair and the military bearing had taken a seat on Lupin's right, and as Dumbledore indicated that she should rise, she did so.

Speculative whispers and murmurs made the rounds. None of the other teachers had given any hints of leaving, they still hadn't managed to get rid of their latest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher- it _was_ only the middle of October- and aside from Snape's cuts and Dumbledore's hip, none of the faculty had been hurt lately. Even Hagrid, compared to the brutal battering he'd taken at the hands of Grawp last year, looked hale and well.

"Because these are such perilous times," Dumbledore said, a new note of seriousness in his voice, "I regret to say that even this school is not immune from threats. While I do not believe that any of you are at risk, I felt it would be best for everyone's morale to appoint a Head of Security."

Everyone looked nervously at the woman, whose robes were gunmetal blue with aggressively polished brass buttons. She carried her wand the way an army officer might carry his swagger stick, and seemed ready to whack knuckles or assign push-ups at the drop of a hat.

"And so," Dumbledore said, "I'd like to present an Auror in the employ of the Ministry, now on indefinite loan to Hogwarts, Madame Tonks."

"Tonks!" Ginny and Hermione cried in unison, sounding weirdly like the punchline of a vaudeville gag.

"Blimey!" Ron peered at the woman. "No. It's not her. Is it her, Harry?"

"Could be ..." Harry said. "She _is_ a Metamorphamagus, you know."

The Great Hall was abuzz, but when Tonks marched to the podium, it fell silent again. She saluted smartly. "Thank you, Minister Dumbledore," she said.

"Of course," Hermione said as if talking to herself. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"What?" Ron asked. "What's good?"

"Having a few more members of the Order on hand," she said. "Just in case. At the Ministry, he's got your dad, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, and maybe Moody -"

"What about Mundungus Fletcher?" Harry asked.

"In Diagon Alley with Fred and George," Ginny responded promptly. "Keeping an eye on the seedier side of things."

"How d'you know?" Ron turned to her.

"Fred wrote to me. Mum's not happy about it."

"I can imagine," Harry said, remembering how Mrs. Weasley had railed at Fred and George, and at Mundungus, on many different occasions for many different infractions.

"Mum's got precious Percy back, so she can just wash her hands of Fred and George like she's always threatened to," Ron said grouchily. "And he's milking it for all it's worth, Percy is, I'll bet."

As the dishes filled with pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, carrots, salad and applesauce, Tonks moved around the room like a drill sergeant inspecting the troops. Harry couldn't help grinning at the way postures and table manners improved as she went by, or how many people studiously avoided Tonks' steely glower. His grin faded a little when Tonks recognized Jane and vice versa. The temperature around that section of the Slytherin table probably dropped a few degrees at the iciness of their exchanged glance.

Later, he joined Ron, Hermione and Ginny in finding the new office that Lupin had been given. Neville tagged along- he was still no great fan of Lupin's, not after word of the boggart had gone around school and earned him an even larger portion of Snape's wrath, but he had been there in the Department of Mysteries, and Lupin had been among the cavalry who came to their rescue. Luna Lovegood, much to Ron's discomfiture and Hermione's lip-tightening displeasure, caught up with them just as Harry knocked.

"Naturally, some people in the Ministry had second thoughts," Lupin told them half an hour later, after sharing around celebratory butterbeers and, in honor of their very first meeting on the Hogwarts Express, slabs of Honeydukes best chocolate. "They desperately wanted Dumbledore to take over because they reasoned- rightly so - that Dumbledore was the best man to take charge in this crisis. What they didn't count on was Dumbledore also coming and changing things."

"Like that anti-werewolf legislation?" Hermione asked.

"Not only that, but to further rub salt in the wound, he wasted no time hiring me," Lupin said. He ran a hand over his new robes. "I was happy to accept, and not only for the generous salary. So, tell me what's been going on at Hogwarts."

They took turns, talking about classes and homework and Quidditch and teachers, giving rave reviews to Gwenna Golden, though also assuring Lupin that her lessons, while informative and interesting, weren't as _fun_ as his had been. The only bad moment was when Luna cheerfully explained that she and Ron were dating. Hermione cracked apart the slab of chocolate she'd been holding, and Ron went purple and looked like he was wishing the floor would open and swallow him.

Then Neville spoke up. "Do you think, Professor Lupin, that there could be a curse on some of the Slytherins?"  
Lupin paused and lowered the bottle of butterbeer he'd been about to sip from. "I assume you mean this idea that the descendants of Death Eaters are somehow marked for disaster and misfortune?"

"You've heard about it?" Harry asked.

"From Dumbledore." The way Lupin looked at him told Harry that Lupin had heard a few _ot_her things from Dumbledore, too.

"Could there be?" Neville persisted.

"I find it highly doubtful," Lupin said. "Curses don't work that way."

"Like I told you, Neville," Hermione said.

"It's a run of bad luck and coincidence, most likely." Lupin sipped thoughtfully. "I suppose it's possible- on a purely hypothetical basis- that someone could have been behind the first three deaths, but the fourth was obviously not foul play. And the unfortunate boy in St. Mungo's was not acting under any spells or outside influences."

There was a series of sharp raps at the door. It opened, and Tonks looked in. When she saw Lupin's company, she beamed a broad smile that did not at all suit her severe new face.

"Wotcher, everybody, am I missing the party?" She came in, her features shifting as she closed the door. Her hair shortened and darkened, the frown lines and crow's feet vanished as if someone had flipped a Time Turner back thirty years, and by the time she sat down, she was her regular self. She picked up a butterbeer, clinked bottles all around, and slouched with a sigh to hoist her feet up onto Lupin's desk.

"Make yourself at home, Nymphadora," Lupin said.

She eyeballed him in a mock-scolding way that lacked real venom. "Thank you, Remus, don't mind if I do."

An hour later, with the butterbeers and chocolate consumed, Lupin ushered them out. "Could you stay a moment, Harry?" he asked. "I won't keep you long, I promise."

"Sure," Harry said, and nodded to the others. "Go on ahead. I'll catch up."

When it was just the three of them, Harry braced himself for the lecture he was sure would be forthcoming. Tonks had gone all solemn, which was never a good sign.

"I understand you've been practicing Astralmency," Lupin said.

Blinking- he had been expecting another topic- Harry said, "Yeah. Just the once, though. Why? Are you going to tell me it's too dangerous and I shouldn't do it?"

"Not at all," Lupin said comfortably. "I was going to tell you it's advanced magic beyond your years, good job, and keep it up."

"Really?"

"Really. You impressed me greatly by how swiftly you learned to summon a Patronus, so I shouldn't be all that surprised. Plus, you might not have known this, but your mother was an experienced Astralmens."

"She was?"

"I think I told you once that your mother was there for me at a time when no one else could be. In the years after we left school, obviously it wasn't possible for my friends to be with me every month on the full moon. Without them to keep me in check, I locked myself away in a sturdy cellar during my transformations. Your mother would look in on me, using Astralmency. Sometimes she was able to speak to me, or appear to me, visible though insubstantial. Even that small bit of human contact helped me maintain control."

Here, Tonks touched his arm, and Lupin smiled gratefully at her, briefly covering her hand with his own.

"I was always indebted to Lily for that," Lupin went on. "She saw me at my bestial worst, and never flinched from me. She was a true friend, Harry, and I'm glad to see you following in her footsteps as well as James'."

"Is that why I didn't have any trouble with it?" Harry asked. "Because of my mother?"

"Some types of magical talent do run in families," Lupin said. "But then, so do other talents. Your flying, your ability at Quidditch, those come from James, obviously."

"I had a granny who was a Metamorphamagus," Tonks volunteered. "It's kind of a legacy."

"What... what about Dark magic? Is that a legacy, too?"

They shared a troubled look.

"Never mind," Harry said hastily. "Forget I brought it up."

"It isn't that," Lupin said. "What I meant to say was that certain spells just more naturally come easier to some people than to others."

"If Dumbledore told you about the Astralmency, he must've told you about Nox," Harry said, changing the subject.

Tonks nodded. "He's not the only new Death Eater recruit, but he's probably the youngest."

"So there've been others?"

"A dismaying number," Lupin said. "But, happily, we've had some luck of our own, gathering supporters and even some new members in the Order."

They talked about the Order for a while, and then Tonks pointed out that it was getting late, and she and Lupin still hadn't unpacked.

Harry took the long way back to Gryffindor tower, and was nearing the portrait hole when he spotted someone skulking about in the shadows.

"Hsst! Potter!"

"Who's there?" Harry challenged, feeling for his wand.

Draco Malfoy emerged from the darkness, his white-blond hair slicked back and seemingly glowing with its own pale, spectral light.

"Malfoy." Harry said the name as he often did, like it was a dirty word.

"I want to talk to you, Potter."

He could see Malfoy's hands... at his sides, empty. And there was no one else lurking, ready to spring a trap.

Warily, he moved nearer. "I'm listening."

"Not here."

"You think I'm going anyplace with you, Malfoy?"

"Afraid?" sneered Malfoy. "The great Harry Potter?"

"I'm not afraid of you. But I trust you as far as I could spit a rat. Anything you need to say to me, you can say right here."

"Fine," Malfoy said. "I want you to do something."

"What?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Here." Malfoy reached into his pocket.

Harry drew his wand in a blur of motion.

"For God's sake, Potter!" Malfoy said, annoyed. "You must think I'm really stupid Attack you? Right here outside your own common room? You'd have all your Gryffindor pals on me in a heartbeat, and I'm here with no one at my back. So don't get your knickers in a twist."

"What do you want from me, Malfoy?"

"I want you to take this." He held out the item he'd pulled from his pocket, which was not a wand at all but something small and flat, edged in gold, and faceted like a jewel.

In fact, it was a jewel, Harry saw, the kind of thing that a lady might wear as a choker, threaded on a wide band of velvet ribbon. The gold setting was a pattern of Celtic knotwork. The gemstone itself was the size of a bottlecap, and glowing with a deep, cool green light.

"You want me to take that."

"Yes."

"Right, Malfoy," Harry said. "You must think _I'm_ really stupid. Take that from you? A magical jewel that could be jinxed with anything? And I'll just pluck it right from your hand, shall I?"

"It's not jinxed," Malfoy said. Now he looked embarrassed, ashamed and hotly mutinous all at the same time. "It's a Maleficum."

"A what?"

"Oh, the teacher's pet, the master of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and he doesn't know what a Maleficum is?" Malfoy made an exasperated noise. "I never should have even bothered. What in hell was I thinking?"

"Why not just tell me what it is?"

"It's been enchanted with the Maleficus Charm," Malfoy said, in a tone he might have used to explain to a five-year-old. "You _do_ know what the Maleficus Charm is, don't you, Potter?"

Harry in fact did not, though he was loathe to admit it to Malfoy. What he did know was that with a name like that, it sounded like Dark magic, and he wasn't about to take it from Malfoy without further explanation and a damned good reason.

"Okay," he said.

"The charm is bound to me," Malfoy said. "As long as it's green, like it is now, I'm fine. If it turns yellow, it means I'm in trouble."

He thought of the clock that Mrs. Weasley kept, the marvelous clock that had a hand for each member of the family and, in place of numbers, designations like "home" and "work" and "traveling."

"But if it turns red -" Malfoy continued.

"Mortal peril," Harry said.

"Mortal peril."

"What if it turns black?"

A muscle twitched in Malfoy's jaw. "Then, Potter, it's too late."

"Wait a minute," Harry said as comprehension washed over him. "You want _me_ to take that? You want _me_ to... to... what, keep an eye on you? Safeguard you? This is about that ridiculous curse idea, isn't it? You think you're in danger from the curse, and you want _me_ to protect you."

"Do you think I'm happy about asking?" snapped Malfoy.

"I think you're mental! Why would you give this to me?"

"Because I know you, Potter. I know that you, so high and mighty, so noble, so good, couldn't stand by and let even your worst enemy just die, not if you could save him. So you'd _have_ to help me."

Unsettled by this perception, Harry was speechless.

"Because _you're_ trustworthy," Malfoy said. "I can't understand it myself, but what I _can_ understand is that if something does happen to me, and you don't prevent it, everyone would blame you. And you can't handle that. So you would have to do it, just to keep your shining image untarnished."

"You've got a peculiar way of asking for my help," Harry said. "Not to mention a lot of nerve."

"It sticks in my throat, believe me!" Malfoy said. "But there's nobody else I can trust."

"If you're that concerned, why not go to a teacher? Why not Professor Golden? Or even Dumbledore?"

"Oh, that would be rich!" scoffed Malfoy. "Me, go to Dumbledore! After all the times he's been at odds with my father? As for that amazon island tart -"

"Watch it, Malfoy!"

"Believe me, I've thought it through and you're the only one."

"You know," Harry said, "there's an Auror here now. You could go to her."

"That's why I had to wait for you tonight," Malfoy said. "With her here, whoever's behind it is going to act fast. I'm the only one left, so it's got to be soon."

"What about Snape?" Harry asked.

Malfoy hesitated for several beats before answering, and when he did, it was not before he'd cast an anxious look around and pitched his voice so low Harry could hardly hear.

"Because there's a... there's a chance _he_ might be behind it."

"You've got to be... Snape... why would he ..." sputtered Harry.

"Come on, Potter. You know he was a Death Eater. My father's said all along that Snape has only been pretending to turn from the Dark Lord and go over to Dumbledore's side... that he's really still loyal... but what if he isn't? What if Snape really _is_ against the Dark Lord now, and wants to punish his supporters for going back to him?"

"By killing their kids?" Harry asked, askance.

"He's the Head of our House," Malfoy said. "That's where we all wound up, and of course he's known all about us from the very beginning."

"Then why now? Why not smother you in your sleep on your very first night at Hogwarts? Why wait six years?"

"There wouldn't have been any reason to, not until the Dark Lord returned and called them back to him."

"Which was over a year ago," Harry said. "Look, it's no secret that I don't like Snape, but even I have a hard time thinking he'd -"

"You don't think there's a curse or a plot at all," Malfoy interrupted impatiently. "You think I've gone paranoid. If you're right, Potter, then I'm _not_ in any danger. This gem will stay green, I'll be fine, and you wouldn't be obligated to do anything. So, take it. You're only gambling with _my_ life."

Except that wasn't true, Harry thought. If he was wrong, and so was Dumbledore, and Lupin, and everyone else who'd dismissed the idea of a curse or a plot... if they were all wrong and Malfoy was right... it wouldn't just be _his_ life on the line. It'd be Jane Kirkallen's as well.

It galled him to be so neatly mousetrapped by Malfoy, of all people. Caught in the chains of his own honor. Because, yes, damn it, Malfoy had him figured. He couldn't, as much as he might think he'd like to, stand idly by while someone else got hurt. Not a rival, not even an enemy.

The only thing that made it at all bearable was the knowledge that, as much as he hated doing it, Malfoy hated it more. To be backed into such a desperate corner that the only one he could think of to turn to for help was Harry Potter? To swallow his pride like a tincture of bitter wormwood and ask Harry to save him?

He took the Maleficum.

He tensed as he did it, and Malfoy did too, as if both of them were braced for a jolt.

Harry anticipated the gem to be a cold and slimy weight in his hand, like a gelatinous eye or a dead frog or the head of a fish. But it was warm from Malfoy's grasp, and somehow that was worse. He shuddered.

Malfoy was similarly revolted, and wiped his palm on the front of his robes. "This doesn't change anything," he said.

"Wouldn't expect it to."

"It's not like I owe you."

"Absolutely not," Harry said.

"I don't need your charity."

"Never."

"Good," Malfoy said.

"Good," Harry replied.

They studied each other a long moment more, and then Malfoy walked away.

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Height of Horror ... coming Tuesday, February 15th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_  



	29. The Height of Horror

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Height of Horror  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

Malfoy had been wrong. 

His insistence that whoever was behind the murders would strike soon because there was now an Auror at Hogwarts proved groundless. A day went by, and then another, and then a week, and nothing changed.

There was, Harry concluded, no curse. No plot. Lupin had been right. He relaxed, though he did still keep the Maleficum in his pocket and in his nightstand drawer and peeked at it regularly.

The gem remained green. Remained, as October passed, stubbornly, vibrantly, disgustingly, _smugly_ green. Malfoy was in perfect health, perfect safety. Harry almost would have welcomed a sudden change to yellow, just to relieve the monotony.

As Halloween drew near, he found himself checking the Maleficum more frequently. He didn't know why ... only that the 31st loomed large and ominous in his mind. If _he_ had been a murderous villain, he'd pick Halloween or Friday the 13th. It seemed fitting somehow.

He had done his best in that time to keep an eye on Jane as well. If he was buying into Malfoy's paranoid rubbish even a little bit, it stood to reason that she would be on the list as well.

And he did have to admit, there was a certain slinking part of him that wouldn't have been horribly surprised if it _did_ turn out to be Snape. With Voldemort and the Death Eaters back in power, and Voldemort known for not being terribly forgiving to those who'd crossed him, a devious viper like Snape might well have conceived such a plan.

It made a darkly beautiful sense, and even explained why Malfoy had thus far been spared. Snape could have eliminated Nott, Crabbe and Goyle, and then used Malfoy as a bargaining chip.

Harry knew, in his more rational moments, that of course if Snape or anyone else had made any overt threats or demands of that sort, Malfoy wouldn't still be at Hogwarts. His parents would have whisked him away in a trice.

And Jane? How, in that scenario, did Jane fit in?

He could only think of two possibilities. One was that Snape did not know Jane's secret. The other, and by far more unthinkable, was that...

Well, Snape wouldn't harm his own child, would he?

Halloween arrived as it always did at Hogwarts, in a bustle of activity and preparations for the feast. While endeavoring to salvage the pumpkins from the flooded-out pumpkin patch, Hagrid and Madame Sprout had come up with the idea of shaping the gigantic orange gourds into fanciful shapes, so that by the time they were carved and lit with candles and magically suspended in the Great Hall, they were pumpkin-castles and pumpkin-ships and pumpkin-dragons.

Dumbledore had been erratically in and out of Hogwarts, but under the capable hands of Lupin and McGonagall, the school ran smoothly. Tonks prowled around, sitting in on classes and club meetings, but her only real job thus far as Head of Security had been to ensnare Peeves in a Ghost-Bind when the poltergeist had made good on a long-ago bluff of Ginny's and released Garroting Gas in one of the corridors.

"Always wanted to get that little bugger," Tonks said in satisfaction after the temporarily trapped and corporeal Peeves had been turned over to the Bloody Baron.

The caretaker, who claimed to remember Tonks as a troublemaker from her own school days, had readily forgiven all past misdeeds and chortled for days over the memory of Peeves' punishment.

Harry tried a few more times to make contact with Jane, but she remained steadfast in her determination that they could not possibly hope to be friends. The second mirror sat in his trunk with the first, and every time he looked inside, the pair of them were a doleful reminder.

Jane, for her part, grew paler and more withdrawn than ever. She had never been one of the Slytherin leaders, always preferring to stay there on the edges of Pansy Parkinson's group of girls, watching but rarely speaking. Now she avoided everyone's eyes, most of all those of Harry and Snape.

As for Snape, his face healed without a scar. Harry was burning to know how Jane's detention had gone, and what was happening with the Dark Arts Club. More, he simply missed her, and felt more and more that he must have done something, or failed to do something.

The situation with Ron, Hermione and Luna seemed to have reached a precarious truce, though with another Hogsmeade weekend approaching in early December, Harry sensed the strain building.

Halloween itself turned out to be a beautiful autumn day, the sky so blue it hurt the eyes, the Forbidden Forest brilliant with fall colors, the sunlight like warm marmalade. Dumbledore returned for part of the feast but didn't stay long  perhaps he, too, was worried that something might happen and had to be prepared.

Then it was November, and the Maleficum still vivid green. Nigel Nox had not returned to school, and Edmund Hawke was reportedly recovering at home but would be back after the Christmas holidays. The tragedies of earlier in the term, while not forgotten, were pushed aside as schoolwork and other concerns occupied their time.

On Friday, two days after Halloween, Harry stayed up late in the common room playing wizard chess with Ron, while Neville and Ginny kibitzed and Hermione pored over _A Treatise on the Treatment of Magical Non-Humans_, which she had borrowed from Dumbledore. Ginny had, over Hermione's protests, popped down to the kitchens and gotten a supply of treats from the house-elves, and they'd all gorged on cakes, pastries, and cocoa.

It was nearly midnight when Harry finally got to bed, and he lay strangely restless while one by one the others dropped off to sleep.

Something...

What?

It was like a persistent hum or buzz in his ear, too low to really be heard but audible enough to intrude on his thoughts.

Something he had forgotten to do? Something he had overlooked, had missed?

He rolled over, parted the bed-curtains, and slid open the drawer of his nightstand, meaning to distract himself by paging through the photo album Hagrid had given him. Looking at his parents, so happy at their wedding, was a melancholy experience but a soothing one.

His hand froze on the drawer-pull.

The Maleficum was not glowing green.

It was a hot flame-orange.

Harry sat up and held it, peering into the jewel. "Orange?"

If yellow was trouble, and red was mortal peril, what was orange?

"Not good," he muttered. "Malfoy!"

He jumped out of bed and threw on his clothes. Ron mumbled and turned over in his sleep and Harry almost woke him but knew that there wasn't time to explain. Ron would only be querulous, disbelieving, and incredulous.

Grabbing the Marauder's Map, Harry ran down to the common room. He lit his wand and frantically scanned the map for a dot labeled Draco Malfoy. There was no such dot in the Slytherin dormitory. Not in the Slytherin common room, or anywhere in the dungeon.

Movement on the map- there! No! That was Mrs. Norris, creeping about the second floor.

There! Three moving dots headed for the Astronomy tower. Harry's nose almost bumped the paper as he squinted.

Three dots...

Draco Malfoy!

He started to lower the map, then was riveted by the other two dots. Dread clutched him like a claw.

One was labeled Jane Kirkallen, and the other was Severus Snape.

Hermione had left her books neatly stacked, and _A Treatise on the Treatment of Magical Non-Humans_ was bookmarked and resting atop the midnight-blue _Mind-Journeys _volume. His gaze fell upon it, and Harry nodded.

"All right," he said to himself. "Calmly. It won't work unless you're calm."

Putting the Maleficum and the map in his pocket, he stretched out on the couch with his wand held loose and his arms folded.

"_Astralio_," Harry said.

Too tense. Slow, deep breaths... don't think about what could be happening... don't look at the gem and see if it's changed to red... slow, deep breaths.

"_Astralio_," he tried again.

This time, he rose up from his body, floating free and wonderfully weightless. He took a moment to enjoy the sensation, and then concentrated.

A crystalline blackness surrounded him, lit only by the diamond-chips of stars seen through arched windows, and the faint luster of three auras around three dark shapes.

One aura was familiar, a dusty burgundy. Jane.

The others were a rich burnt-umber, and a very pale green. As the shapes passed a window, enough thin starlight fell on them to illuminate their features. Harry caught a glimpse of white-blond hair and realized that the pale green aura belonged to Malfoy. Malfoy looked petrified.

The burnt-umber one belonged to Snape, whose uneven teeth were bared in a rictus of fury.

Harry wheeled around until he could see Jane's face, which was ashen and streaked with tears that sparkled in the starlight.

His silvery lifeline glimmered above him. Harry shot along it at a dizzying speed and slammed back into his body so hard he almost knocked himself senseless. The room rocked and spun around him as, without waiting until he'd acclimated, he lunged up from the couch.

There was no way, even if he pelted full-tilt through the halls and up staircase after staircase, that he could possibly arrive in time. Unless he took a shortcut.

"_Accio_ Firebolt!" he cried.

From above came the thud and crash of his trunk falling over, as his broomstick burst out of it. Seconds later, the contoured, polished handle of the Firebolt smacked into his hand. Harry flung open a window, clambered onto the sill, mounted the broomstick, and hurtled into the night.

The moonless sky was a deep, pure black studded with the hard points of the stars. The warmth of the day was long gone, leaving a cold so crisp that it sucked the breath from his lungs in clouds of frosty white.

He sped up at a steep angle, then circled, orienting himself. He saw the rising black spire of the Astronomy tower silhouetted against a dazzling band of the Milky Way, and arrowed toward it.

Three dark-robed figures emerged onto the telescope-ringed roof. Harry saw Malfoy step up onto the rail, and lean out over the precipitous drop. He was going to jump.

As Malfoy's foot slid forward into space, as his body tipped inexorably forward, Harry launched from the Firebolt in a flying tackle.

His shoulder struck Malfoy in the midsection, a solid blow that jarred Harry's spine. Malfoy, the wind knocked out of him, was driven backward as if punched by Hagrid. He hit the stone roof and slid headfirst into the base of a telescope with Harry sprawled half-atop him. Malfoy went limp. The Firebolt flew on, clearing the roof, and plunged away into the darkness.

Harry sprang up, drawing his wand. He started to turn toward Snape and was halted mid-motion by a harsh whisper.

"_Imperio_!"

A feeling came over him of detached lassitude, as if he were inside himself but not really _of_ himself. He had the sudden strong urge to stop where he was, to hold absolutely still. A demanding yet persuasive voice echoed in the silence inside his head.

_Stop. Turn around. Go away._

But he couldn't.

_Go away._

_No_, Harry thought. _I won't._

_Turn and leave. Just go, leave and don't look back._

_No!_ he thought more firmly.

_Go away! Now!_

"No! I won't!" Harry shouted, tearing free of the spell with a convulsive jerk. He spun around, and looked from the tip of the wand leveled at him to the shocked face behind it. "I won't, Jane."

"You... how... you can't ..." she said falteringly. "My spell ..."

"I've had some experience resisting the Imperius Curse," Harry said.

To his right, Snape was locked in the motionless rigidity of a Full Body-Bind. To his left, Malfoy was unconscious with his eyes rolled up to whites and blood staining his hair where his head had collided with the telescope stand. Between them, in front of him, stood Jane.

She lowered her wand in slow increments, as if the strength were being leached from her arm. "Why, Harry? I was so close... why did you have to interfere? You've ruined everything!"

Understanding came to him with a stark and total clarity that wrung his heart like a rag in his chest.

"There _was_ a plot," he said, feeling hollow and numb.

"I could have finished it tonight!" she said.

"Jane ..."

"It would have been over."

"No. Not you," he said, knowing it was true but not wanting to believe it.

"Yes, Harry," she said. "Me."

"You killed them? Nott, Crabbe -"

"They killed themselves," she said, "but, yes, I made them do it."

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why, Jane?"

"You know why," she said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

"For your mother."

"All I cared about from the moment I learned I would be coming to Hogwarts was that I might finally be able to find out who was responsible for her death, and take revenge! That was my driving force, Harry. That was my ambition. Which was quite convenient, really... look where my ambition put me. Right into Slytherin House. I couldn't get at _them_, but I could get at their children!"

"You've been here five years, why now?"

"Because I didn't know for sure!" she cried. "I didn't know who they were! I had my suspicions, but it wasn't until your interview came out that I had the names, the confirmation!"

Harry felt cold all over. "That issue of the _Quibbler_ ..."

"I finally knew who they were, thanks to you," Jane said. "I spent the summer making my plans, practicing, getting what I needed, so that I'd be ready. Then, as soon as I had my chance, I took it!"

"You were at the Leaky Cauldron that morning," Harry said. "You must have put the Imperius Curse on Nox, and made him break his wand, tie that rope around his neck, and jump out the window."

"Yes."

"Then, later that night... what? You put Crabbe under it too, and made him go into the bathroom, turn on all the hot water, and slash his wrists? And just sit there as he... as he bled and boiled to death?"

She nodded. "It was risky, so close on the heels of the other, but he frightened me that day. He showed that he was smarter than any of us had ever guessed, by something he'd said on the train. So I knew I had best get rid of him quickly, in case he figured out what was going on. I didn't want to underestimate him."

"I saw you coming out of Knockturn Alley," Harry said. "That was when you bought the Liquipurging Elixir. That box you were carrying. The one you hit Kreacher with. The shopkeeper lied about not selling to students."

"Of course he did."

"You made Goyle swallow the capsules... but why didn't he tell anyone what you'd done? It was _hours_ later before it took effect!"

"Haven't you ever seen him eat?" She laughed wildly. "I mixed the capsules with his breakfast porridge. I didn't have to use the Imperius Curse on him... he just made some remark that the porridge had extra currants in it that day, and he gulped it down like a starving wolf. He never stopped long enough to chew."

"The suicide note ?"

"I bought a Forging Quill in Knockturn Alley, too," Jane said. "After breakfast, I said I'd forgotten my Charms homework, and I went back to the dormitory, to his room. I wrote the note and left the bottle."

"What about Devona Stormdark?" Harry asked.

Jane's face crumpled. "Devona... I didn't set out meaning her to die, Harry, not at first. She wasn't on my list. Neither were Nigel or Eddie. I swear to you, I had nothing to do with Eddie burning himself... I never would have harmed him. Never."

"Why not?"

"They weren't connected. They weren't the ones I was after."

"Nox's aunt, Lethia -"

"Was a woman. And Eddie's great-uncle and Devona's relatives... they were dead long before. They couldn't have been involved. I'm not on some great mad vendetta against _all_ Death Eaters, Harry. I'm no Auror, no crusader on the side of good. It's never been anything but purely personal."

"Then it really was an accident, there at Hogsbrook?"

"It... it wasn't deliberate. I didn't plan it. But no, it was no accident. I killed Devona. Not because she was related to Death Eaters. I'd have probably done the same to anyone who found us there that night."

Harry went still. "That's why? Because she caught us together in the Shrieking Shack? Is that why she had to die? Your reputation?"

"You heard what she said!" Jane looked miserably at him. "She would have told everyone about us. It would have finished me in Slytherin House, and I never would have been able to get close enough to _him_ -" here she gestured at the unconscious Malfoy, "-to do what I had to do!"

"But I saw what happened!" Harry said. "She had you by the throat -"

"I staged it," Jane admitted, now with downcast eyes. "I knew you would come after us, so I put her under the Imperius Curse and had her grab me, threaten me like that."

"What?"

"I thought that in the struggle, I could make Devona fall into the brook and it'd look like an accident. I hadn't counted on the lightning, on both of us getting thrown in."

"You used me," Harry said. "You tricked me!"

"I'm sorrier about that than anything else I've done," Jane said in a low, pain-filled voice.

"All along, you _lied_ to me!"

She quickly raised her head, and searched his gaze imploringly with her dark eyes. "No, Harry! I've never lied to you. Not directly. I couldn't do that. I left things out, yes, bent the truth now and then... let you make your own conclusions, let you believe what wasn't true... but I never lied to you. Please, believe that, at least."

"I trusted you."

"I know."

"You tried to talk me out of it, tried to... to warn me off from caring about you and being your friend! You kept saying that you were no good, that you'd only hurt me!"

"I was right, wasn't I?"

"All this time ..."

"I've wanted for so long to tell you all of it," she said. "But what could I say? You would have stopped me."

"Damned right I would've!"

"I couldn't let you. I _have_ to do this."

"Kill them?"

"It's all I've got!" she said desperately. "All I've ever had, all that's kept me going! It would have worked, too... but you had to find me out. How, Harry? How did you know?"

He took the Maleficum from his pocket. It was now a smoky orange-red, but he supposed that in the moments before he knocked Malfoy back from the rail, it had been the pure crimson of mortal peril.

"Malfoy gave this to me. It has the Maleficus Charm on it." Harry uttered a brittle laugh. "He suspected Snape. How do you like that? He thought Snape was the one behind the deaths. And I have to admit, I reckoned it was pretty plausible myself. So when I saw the three of you together, I thought Snape had control of both of you. What were you going to do with him, Jane, after you chucked Malfoy off the Astronomy tower?"

"Ask him some questions," Jane said unflinchingly. "Torture the truth out of him with the Cruciatus Curse, if it came to that."

"Did he guess it was you?"

She shook her head, her ponytail swaying. "He spotted us leaving the dormitory. If I'd just killed Draco in his room! But I'd thought that if he fell from here, it'd look like another suicide. Everyone knows how he's been acting lately."

"So you took control of him, and then Snape, too, and marched them both up here."

"Yes. I knew I didn't have any choice. I was so frightened of what would happen... all the way up here I was practically in tears... but there was no turning back once I'd begun."

"Malfoy never suspected?"

"He was starting to think it was over," Jane said. "That the danger had ended... that your friend the Auror had frightened the killer off or dispelled the curse."

"Or that if anything bad was going to happen," Harry said, "it would have been on Halloween? But once that had passed, he thought he was safe."

"Exactly."

"Why _did_ you wait?"

"Partly because it _would_ lull him into thinking he was safe. Any Dark wizard worth his or her salt wouldn't be able to resist doing their most heinous deeds on Halloween, would they? But I wanted it to be tonight. It _had_ to be tonight."

"Why?"

"It's my birthday," she said.

Harry heard an echo of her in his mind- _two nights before I was born, the Dark Lord walked into your house... and never walked out. _"Voldemort killed my parents on Halloween."

"And I became what I was meant to be all along," Jane said. "Not in the way they'd wanted it, perhaps... not like this... but the bad blood still runs true."

"Was anything between us real?" he asked. "Any of it?"

"You know the answer to that," she said softly.

"Do I? Jane, you've _murdered_ people! You've used one of the Unforgivable Curses! It's life in Azkaban if you're caught!"

"I am caught, Harry. You caught me."

"No," he said, startled. "No, that can't be right ..."

"Could you stand back and do nothing? Walk away and let me kill them?" Jane asked, her gaze steady. "Could you, Harry?"

"No!" He stared at her, appalled.

"Even though it's Draco Malfoy, and Professor Snape? You'd try to stop me, and save their lives? After all they've done to you?"

"I'd have to try," he said.

"Then I'm caught. It's as simple as that."

"There's got to be a way!" he said urgently.

"Oh, I could try to fight you, I suppose... but my best spell is the Imperius Curse and you've already shown me that it won't be any use. And anyway, Harry... I wouldn't do that. I couldn't. Not to you."

She backed away from him as she spoke. Puzzled, he didn't at first comprehend what she was doing- did she mean to attack him after all, and was giving herself some room to wave her wand- but then he saw the rail behind her, the drop. His heart leaped into his throat.

"Jane! Stop!"

"I told you at Hogsbrook that you should have let me go," she said. "That it would be better ..."

Her back bumped the rail.

"Don't do it, Jane."

Facing him, she clambered backward onto the rail like she was scaling a ladder.

"Come down from there."

He stepped toward her and she held out a hand to ward him off. He took another step, regardless.

"We'll think of something," he said. "Say that you escaped -"

"No!" she said sharply. "I won't let you sink to my level. I won't let you lie for me."

"I don't care! No one would have to know!"

"_He_ would know." She nodded her head toward Snape. "He's heard everything we've said. It's done, Harry. I'm done."

She turned and jumped.

"_Accio!_" Harry yelled.

The Summoning Charm yanked Jane off her feet and brought her sailing toward him. He caught her in his arms.

"No!" she said. "No, Harry, let me go!"

"I'm not going to watch you die!"

Her palm cracked across his cheek in a ringing slap. "Let me _go_!"

Stunned, he allowed her to slip from his grasp. Jane was up like a shot, but Harry was quick enough to grab the back of her robes. She whirled on him like an enraged cat, but her furious fighting was hampered by a storm of tears.

As they struggled, they trampled over the prone, immobile Snape and crashed into telescopes. Harry wrested Jane away from the edge again. They tripped over Snape a second time, and both sat down hard.

Before Jane could scramble away, Harry rose up on his knees, pressed her shoulders against a section of low stone wall, and put his face so close to hers that their noses and foreheads were nearly touching.

"Listen to me, Jane," he said intently. "I am not going to let you do this. I've lost too many people already. I lost my parents. I got my godfather killed, and Cedric Diggory too. I nearly got Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Luna killed. So if you expect me to let you jump off this tower, you're wrong."

Her dark eyes welled up and overspilled. "But they were all good people," she whispered. "You know what I am, what I've done."

The words stabbed him like knives. "I know," he said, his voice hoarse.

"I shouldn't have made you a part of this," Jane said. "I shouldn't have let myself get close to you. I never thought it'd hurt this much."

Harry closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Jane's. He felt torn in two.

Half of him was horrified and repulsed by what she had done, by the cold and calculating economy and deviousness with which she had murdered Nott, Crabbe and Goyle... the quick-thinking scheme that had ended Devona Stormdark's life. She was as merciless a killer as any Death Eater, no matter what her reasons.

The other half believed her when she said that their friendship had been genuine, that she cared for him. She _hadn't_ lied to him, either... had never told him a lie. He had embraced her, kissed her, and even now in the wake of everything, was drawn to her so strongly that it made him ache to think about it.

How could he ever hope to reconcile such conflicting reactions?

"It'll be all right," he said, as much to himself as to her. "Somehow. You'll see."

She brushed her fingertips down the side of his face, hesitantly, as if she expected him to twist away in revulsion. "I am sorry," she said. "I hope you believe that."

"I believe it." He leaned into her touch.

"You are the only real friend I've ever had," she said. "Maybe... someday... you'll be able to forgive me."

He opened his eyes and gazed into hers, seeing only trust and remorse and deep emotion.

"I hope so," he said. He curled his hand around the nape of her neck as he'd done outside of Dumbledore's office, intending to kiss her again.

But the rustle of robes stopped him as Snape, whom he'd forgotten, got laboriously to his feet. The Full Body-Bind had worn off.

Jane gasped in dismay.

Harry turned, setting himself between her and Snape.

"Stand away from her, Potter," Snape said. He had recovered his wand, and aimed it at Jane.

"Leave her alone," Harry said.

"Oh, no you don't, boy. None of your tricks, none of your prevarication, none of your last-minute worming out of trouble. You won't get out of this."

"Harry hasn't done anything wrong," Jane said, getting up and stepping in front of Harry.

"But you have, Miss Kirkallen," Snape said softly. "As you surmised, I heard every word. Your entire confession. Mr. Potter considers himself an expert at helping people avoid their due comeuppance, but I'm going to personally ensure that this time, justice is done!"

"I said, leave her alone," Harry said, drawing his wand.

Snape regarded him with cold amusement. "Are you in such a hurry to ally yourself with a murderer? This time, Potter, you cannot possibly argue her innocence, as you did with Sirius Black. There will be no clever solutions courtesy of Miss Granger's quick wits, no special reprieve from Dumbledore."

"He won't," Jane said. "I am guilty, Professor."

"You don't have to admit anything to him, Jane!"

"And in my own House," Snape marveled, ignoring Harry's outburst. "Betraying even your own classmates? Murder? Treachery? Poisoning? Lies? Unforgivable Curses? You were correct, Miss Kirkallen. You _are_ more Slytherin than I knew. I could almost be proud of you, if not for your woeful choice of love-interests."

"I don't want your pride!" Jane said through gritted teeth.

"The very viper in our midst," Snape said. "In a nest of vipers, that's saying something."

"That'll do, Severus," Lupin's voice said from behind them. "We'll take it from here."

Lupin and Tonks were standing there, both with wands in hand. Tonks was in a modified version of her Head of Security guise, still with the iron-grey hair and the military bearing but with her own youthful features.

"What are you going to do to her?" Harry asked, now setting himself between Tonks and Jane.

"She's under arrest," Tonks said. "By order of the Ministry of Magic."

To be concluded in Chapter Thirty - Cage of Flame, coming Friday, Feb. 18th, 2005.

* * *

_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


	30. Cage of Flame

Harry Potter and the Slytherin Spy  
Chapter Thirty - Cage of Flame  
Christine Morgan

* * *

Author's Note: 

The characters and world of the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. This story is set immediately following the events in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and is not connected with my previous HP fanfics. Some chapters will contain strong language and violence.

* * *

"I want to know what will happen to Jane," Harry demanded after declining yet again Lupin's offer to sit down and have a butterbeer or a cup of tea. 

Lupin sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose. He now looked as haggard as Harry had ever seen him, tired and unhappy. They were in his office, and through the window Harry could see the sun rising on a beautiful, blameless November day. But sunrise or no, his mood stayed dark.

"In all likelihood, Harry, I'm afraid she's going to Azkaban."

Harry's fists clenched. "It's my fault."

"You did not make Jane do those things."

"She wouldn't be arrested if I hadn't gone tearing up there to find her."

"And Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape would probably be dead," Lupin said gently. "Surely, Harry, you cannot think that would have been for the best."

"They don't even know _why_ she did it!"

"She'll have a chance to explain at her trial. But I fear that in this case, nothing will make much of a difference. Snape heard her confess, and so did you. Even if you refused to testify, he would. And what reason could possibly be good enough to warrant murder?"

"She's not some crazed serial killer," Harry insisted.

"It doesn't matter. The law is the law. They are called Unforgivable Curses for a reason- the use of them, under _any_ circumstances, is inexcusable."

"Aurors can use them."

"Harry, you can argue and search for loopholes all you like- and more power to you, because I know your heart is in the right place- but this once, you may have to accept that there's nothing you can do. She is guilty. You can't change that."

"But it isn't right," Harry said.

Lupin sighed again and said nothing.

"You agree with them, don't you?" Harry asked hotly. "You and Tonks. That she should go to Azkaban."

"I assure you, it turns my stomach to contemplate a teenage girl being sent to Azkaban," Lupin said. "But her crimes, Harry- you saw with your own eyes what she did, what she was capable of."

"There has to be something I can do."

"I wish there was," Lupin said with real sympathy. "I'm so sorry it had to turn out this way."

"Can I see her? Talk to her? Before they take her away?"

Upon leaving the top of the Astronomy tower, Tonks had taken charge of Jane and escorted her to Dumbledore's office. She would be held there until Dumbledore himself could return from the Ministry. Harry thought of her up there and wondered what Dilys Derwent had to say now, to this many-times-great-granddaughter of hers. Or what Phineas Nigellus had to say.

Owing to the dire nature of her crimes, Tonks had already broken Jane's wand. When she'd done it, so much of the life had gone out of Jane that it might as well have been her neck snapping, instead of that slim stick of wood.

Largely to prevent them from killing each other on the spot, Lupin had brought Harry to wait here with him and sent Snape off to contact Narcissa Malfoy with the news that her son was in the hospital wing with a concussion. Snape had gloatingly gone to do so, and Harry was sure that he had wasted no time telling the entire school all of the grim details.

"I don't think so, Harry," Lupin said. "It's best that you don't."

"She's my friend!"

"I know she is, and I commend your loyalty." Lupin poured a third cup of tea for himself, wordlessly offered again by tipping the teapot in Harry's direction, and sat down when Harry once more shook his head.

"Do you?" Harry asked. "Really? I mean... it's crazy, isn't it? She _did_ it! She killed four people. Would have killed Malfoy and Snape, too, if I hadn't stopped her."

"Yes," Lupin said, making it almost a question.

"How can I still care about her? She's a murderer!"

"And yet you do care."

"I shouldn't. I know what she did. It's not like she accidentally killed someone, or did it in a fit of anger. She planned it. She'd been planning it for years. It was cold-blooded murder."

"I'm afraid there is no other way to look at it," Lupin said.

"She wouldn't have known who to target if not for that stupid interview, either!"

"Harry, you cannot blame yourself. What you did by granting Rita Skeeter that interview was a bold stroke, shining a light of truth that made many people open their eyes. And you cannot flatter yourself into thinking that only through you would that information have come out. Sooner or later, those Death Eaters would have revealed themselves for what they were."

"I guess," Harry said. "But, Professor, why did she have to do it? Was revenge _that_ important?"

"Clearly, to Jane, it must have been. For the past several years, that has been her only goal. She was focused on it to the exclusion of all else."

"She must have known she'd be caught."

"I doubt she thought beyond attaining her revenge," Lupin said. "Or, given what she was up against, she might have expected to die in the commission of her crimes."

"But things were different!" Harry said. "It wasn't all she had any more. She didn't have to go through with it. There's more to her than being some sort of... vengeance machine for her dead mother!"

"Clearly, she must not have thought so. Or she may have been swept along by the momentum. Once she set her plan in motion, she must have been compelled to see it through to the very end, or at least so far as she could take it."

"And she used me," Harry said. "All that time."

"Do you believe that?"

"No," he said miserably.

"That, Harry," Lupin said, stirring his tea, "is why you're bothered by your inability to stop caring about Jane. Although I did not witness much of your friendship, it does seem to me that it was genuine."

"Then why didn't she tell me?"

"And what would you have done?"

"Talked her out of it. Made her stop!"

"There's your answer."

"So... she likes me... but she couldn't let that get in the way of her plan?"

"Essentially," Lupin said. "Or so I'd speculate."

"And I like her... even after everything she's done?"

"Don't you?"

"I shouldn't," Harry said. "She became the very thing she hates most in the whole world. That _I_ hate most in the whole world. The only difference is, she wasn't doing it on Voldemort's say-so, or because she _likes_ killing people. She did it because she thought that she had to!"

"Yes, Harry."

"What's more," Harry said heavily, "I think... Professor, I think I must have known all along. Or at least suspected. She _did_ try to tell me, and whenever she started, I wouldn't let her. I _knew_... down deep... I knew. And I didn't say anything."

Lupin only looked at him, not accusing, not condemning.

"How can she be both at once?" Harry asked angrily. "How can she be a murderer, and still be a good person? How can I like her one way, and hate what she's done?"

Lupin kept looking at him steadily. "I have asked myself a similar question countless times over the years. How can I reconcile being a werewolf, and the terrible things that disease makes me do, with the fact that I consider myself to be a good man?"

"You didn't choose to be a werewolf," Harry said.

"I cannot say for certain, but I would suspect that Jane feels like she had no choice either. Whether that is true or not remains open for debate. We don't know what it was like for her, growing up the way she did."

"You mean, her mother might have put her up to it?"

"Not directly," Lupin said. "I can't see someone like Amaryllis Derwent deliberately setting out to do such a thing. But indirectly? I think it's very possible."

"I still like her," Harry said. "I still want to be her friend. I want to help her. I _know_ that she did terrible things... I _know_ I should never want to see her again... but I also know that it's... it's Jane. She didn't mean to hurt me."

Lupin rose and approached him. "That, Harry, is because, like everyone, your heart -" he tapped Harry's chest, "- only exists to feel, and your head -" he tapped Harry's temple, "- exists to rationalize, justify, and talk you out of those feelings when they do not agree with our accepted view of what is right."

"And she needs me. She needs a friend. I'm her only one, now. She doesn't have anyone else. The rest of the Slytherins won't have anything to do with her. The vicar isn't about to speak on her behalf. When he hears, he'll probably say that they should burn her at the stake, and won't be surprised at all."

"I'm sure it's scant comfort at best," Lupin said, "but at least she won't be turned over to the dementors. She'll be spared that."

Harry paced fretfully for an hour, as the morning strengthened. At last, Professor McGonagall came in. "He'll be here momentarily, Remus," she told Lupin. She gave Harry a look of mingled pity and concern, shook her head, and went out.

Snape had indeed spread the word; the entire school was gathered to await Dumbledore's arrival. As Harry emerged with Lupin into the bright sunshine, he blanched from the sight of them. Their somber yet avid expressions, their expectant hush. He saw McGonagall's look mirrored exactly on Hermione's face, and dumbfounded amazement on Ron's, and commiseration on Ginny's and Neville's. The Slytherins were thunderstruck with shock, hardly able to believe that it had been one of their own all along.

Draco Malfoy, just released from the hospital wing, had a large white bandage wrapped around his head- Harry had knocked him into the telescope stand hard enough to crack his skull, though it was less damage than he would have sustained had Harry gotten there even five seconds later- and a slightly confused fog to his eyes, as if he still could not quite understand everything that had happened.

He was at the outermost edge of the crowd with his mother, who had Apparated into Hogsmeade before dawn and been ushered to the school by Snape. Narcissa Malfoy stood very tall, very fair, and very cool, her high-necked gown of green-black silk draping her thin frame and setting off her aristocratic hauteur to good effect. Her ring-bedecked hands rested protectively on her son's shoulders.

Snape, beside her, looked like a hungry bird of prey in his black robes. His gaze challenged Harry to pull one more rabbit out of his proverbial hat, and his thin lips curved ever-so-slightly in a mocking smirk.

Madame Pomfrey, the school nurse, hovered nearby with a disapproving frown, and Harry guessed that Malfoy was out of the hospital wing against her medical advice.

Walking between the whispering, murmuring ranks of students was like being tried before the Wizengamot again. Harry felt them scrutinizing him, judging him. He wondered morbidly what they knew, or thought they did, of his ill-fated friendship with Jane.

"Over here, Harry," murmured Lupin, leading him not to the rest of the Gryffindors but over with the faculty.

Hagrid did his best to give Harry a cheery wave and a grin, but it fell flat. The others all shifted uncomfortably. It was the first time in fifty years that one of their students had been accused of murder, and this was a far more direct murder than the death of Myrtle had been. Only Firenze looked unaffected as usual.

Gwenna Golden, with Arcturus balanced on her hip, reached out to give Harry's hand a compassionate squeeze. The little boy, only sensing that his friend Harry was upset, cooed and patted his cheek.

The whirling disk of fire appeared in the sky over Hogwarts, spinning down on rippling heat-waves. The aureliphim honor guard spread out, spears glinting, their wings somehow every bit as majestic and fiery on a sunny day as they'd been on a cloudy one.

Dumbledore, in magnificent white and gold robes, stepped down from the disk. His face was very grave. Mad-Eye Moody clumped less gracefully down after him, his magical eye sweeping the crowd before pausing, piercingly, on Harry.

Harry was surprised to find that, even after the cross words, hurtful silences, distance and anger, he still felt an uplifting confidence burgeon in his chest at the sight of Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was here. Dumbledore would fix everything.

He pulled away from Lupin and Gwenna, and hurried forward. "Professor, she doesn't deserve to go to Azkaban. Please. You've got to do something."

The regretful look in those light-blue eyes behind their half-moon spectacles dashed hopes Harry hadn't even known he'd been holding onto.

"Her crimes are very serious, Harry, and the evidence against her most overwhelming."

"You mean you're taking her away? You're really going to take her away? You're the Minister of Magic now!"

"And bound by the responsibilities of my office."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I am sorry to say that there is nothing I can do. Miss Kirkallen must be sent to Azkaban to await her trial."

"That's it, then?" Harry asked bitterly. "That's all? This is the justice of the Ministry of Magic?"

"Harry," Dumbledore said with mild reproach.

"Voldemort is out there -" Harry was far past caring how everyone in earshot flinched at the name, and given that his voice had risen to a near-shout, everyone in earshot was _everyone_. "- his Death Eaters walk free, dementors are on a rampage, Fudge is dead... but the wizarding world will sleep safely tonight because a fifteen-year-old girl is in prison?"

"Mind your tongue, laddie," Moody growled.

"She's a kid!" Harry yelled, unintimidated.

"Nits make lice," Moody said.

"How can you do this? How can you arrest _her_ for doing something you yourself have done?"

Moody's eyes, both the beady one and the overlarge magical one, bored into Harry. "Don't sass me, Potter. If you can't see that there's a difference between a trained and authorized Auror going after villainous Death Eater scum, and an untutored amateur slip of a girl murdering innocent people- wipe that look off your face, too, or I'll knock it off; just because you didn't like them, or because their parents might've been Death Eaters doesn't mean that _they'd_ done anything worth being killed for. You start thinking that way, and you're just as bad as a Death Eater yourself."

Harry, with an effort, forced himself into a stoic, wooden expression.

"As I was saying," Moody continued, "if you can't see there's a difference, then you've got a lot to learn. Now, kindly get out of the way."

Fuming, Harry retreated without another look at Dumbledore.

"Be steady, Harry," Lupin said. "Don't make matters worse."

"I'd like to know what you'd consider _worse_," Harry said.

"Dumbledore doesn't like this any better than you do. We'd all prefer to see it end some happier way... but the laws are clear."

The great front doors at the top of the stone steps opened again, and all heads turned as one. What few low conversations there had been now died totally away as Tonks came out into the daylight, leading Jane Kirkallen.

No longer in her school uniform, Jane wore a plain grey robe and slippers. Her hair was loose, framing her face in long dark waves. She was ashen, and her dark eyes were enormous, the eyes of an owl, as she looked out over the crowd.

The sight of so many stony, hostile stares made her hesitate. She had to visibly bolster her courage before she could follow Tonks down the steps and into the wide aisle that split the crowd. But she held her head high, and gave no outward sign of the fear and shame she must be feeling.

As she passed the Slytherins, most of them averted their eyes as if shunning her altogether. Some mouthed obscenities or made crude gestures. Draco Malfoy, his mother, and Snape looked at her with raw hate. Even Nadine Zellis, who had been something of a friend, sniffed coldly and looked away. Only Blaise Zabini gave Jane an encouraging half-grin, but either Jane failed to see it, or didn't respond.

Silent and condemning, her former classmates turned to mark her slow progress through their midst. No one spoke. A few of them shied away, not even wanting her slim shadow to pass over them as if it might carry some sort of evil taint.

It made Harry think again of witch-burnings, and penitents and old-fashioned punishments. All they needed were a few rotten vegetables to throw. Or stones.

All at once, he couldn't bear it. Not for another single second.

"Jane!" Harry called, and started forward.

Tonks blocked his way. "I don't think so, Harry. Sorry."

"It's all right, Tonks," Lupin said, gesturing her aside.

She shot him a look that was as eloquent as if she had spoken aloud - _Are you insane, Remus? This girl is a murderer!_

"If Jane had wanted to harm Harry, she had ample opportunity before this," Lupin said reasonably. "He's in no danger from her. No... physical danger, anyway."

Tonks reluctantly moved out of the way, though staying close with her wand trained on her captive. "You'd better be right, Remus."

Harry both heard and did not hear this. He stopped in front of Jane, not caring that the entire school was there. Let them gawk all they liked. All he could see was Jane, those soulful eyes tilting up to meet his.

For a moment, they only looked at one another.

Then he seized her in a fierce embrace, holding her to him, burying his face in the dark fall of her hair. She was so slight in his arms. He could feel her trembling as she leaned against him.

"There's nothing I can do!" he whispered, agonized, into her ear.

"I know, Harry. I know."

"It isn't fair."

"Yes, it is."

"You don't deserve this!"

"But I do." She took a shaky breath. "I do deserve it."

"I just wish ..."

"You saved me before I was born, and you saved me from the water, and from jumping... but... Harry... even you can't save me every time."

"I don't want to lose you."

Lupin cleared his throat. "Harry ..."

Slowly, reluctantly, Harry straightened up. He brushed a lock of hair from Jane's brow, trailing his fingers over her soft skin.

"Don't worry about me," she said bravely. A corner of her mouth lifted in a shaky version of her familiar wry smile. "Maybe... maybe it won't be _so_ bad."

"I'll come see you," Harry said.

"I doubt I'll be allowed visitors. And even if I hadn't given back your mirror, they wouldn't let me bring it."

"I'll find a way," he said. He was thinking of what Lupin had told him, about his mother and how she had visited him during the full moon. "I promise."

She pressed something into his hand. He looked down and saw that it was the carved wooden snake, the band from her ponytail. Like someone lost in a dream, he put it into his pocket.

"Good-bye, Harry."

He couldn't speak.

Jane turned to Tonks. "I'm ready."

"Come on, then," Tonks said, sounding a bit less harsh than before.

Harry stayed where he was as Tonks led Jane toward the waiting aureliphim. He heard footsteps and the swish of robes as a few people came up around him, and knew without looking that he was surrounded by his friends. Ron and Neville, behind him, gripped his shoulders. Hermione and Ginny were at his sides and put comforting arms around his waist.

Rayyid signaled, and a smaller bright-blazing disk swirled off from the one that had carried Moody and Dumbledore. It hovered in front of Jane, the grass crisping to brown beneath it.

She stepped onto it, wincing as she did so, but the flames did not sear her feet through the thin slippers or ignite the hem of her robe.

The aureliphim raised their golden spears. Beams of fire shot skyward from the tip of each spear, meeting in a fireball high above Jane's head. From the fireball, a dozen fiery lines arched down in long curves, merging with the edges of the disk and sealing her within a cage of flame.

Harry broke from his friends and ran toward her. Moody glowered, but Dumbledore stayed him with a light cautioning touch.

"Jane!" He thrust his arm between the bars.

She, the prisoner, might have been immune to the cage's heat, but Harry was not. Still, he was heedless of the blistering heat and the way the fine hairs sizzled and burnt from his reddening skin.

He clasped her hand. "I do forgive you."

Jane smiled sadly. "Thank you, Harry."

The cage began to rise. Her fingers slipped through his, though he tried to hold on, until he finally had to let go.

The blazing wings of the four nearest aureliphim began to beat, stirring a scorching wind that made the nearest onlookers shield their faces.

Harry kept his arm upraised as the cage floated up and away, the four aureliphim flying in precise formation around it.

All too soon, the cage and its guardians had dwindled to a coin-sized firespark in the distance. Harry let his arm fall to his side and bowed his head.

He heard the swishing of robes through the grass again, but this time it was not Ron's hand, or Neville's, that fell upon his shoulder.

"Harry," Dumbledore said. "I understand what you must be feeling. If you'd like to talk -"

Without lifting his head, Harry said in a dull voice, "You've barely said a word to me for a year and a half, _Minister_. Now's not the time to start."

He wouldn't have been surprised if Moody suddenly clubbed him in the head for his impertinence. Or if Dumbledore got angry. Harry might actually have welcomed either of those reactions. But instead, Dumbledore only heaved a fatigued sigh.

"Very well," he said, and went to rejoin Moody and Rayyid. The three of them headed for the castle without a backward glance.

Harry felt a brief pang that Dumbledore hadn't tried even a little harder to talk to him. Not that there was much Dumbledore could have said or done to help. Still...

Now his friends did approach him again, though tentatively. The teachers were urging the rest of the students to disperse, and they were gradually doing so, though not without shooting more curious glances at Harry.

"Blimey," Ron said. "I don't know how you had the guts to do that."

"Oh, Ron, leave him alone," Hermione said, hugging Harry. "I thought it was very noble."

"Are you going to be all right?" Ginny asked.

"Eventually, maybe," Harry said. "But it doesn't matter. It's not about me."

They started back toward the school, straggling near the end of the line of students, with Lupin and Tonks bringing up the rear.

"That was so romantic," sighed Luna Lovegood mistily, twining her arm through Ron's. "Wasn't it, Ronald?"

"Um ..." Ron said, going pink.

"Quit treating him like he's your boyfriend," Hermione said.

Luna blinked her large, protuberant eyes. "But he _is_ my boyfriend."

"Um ..." Ron said again.

Ginny gave her brother a disgusted grimace. "Ron, if Harry can do what he just did in front of the entire school, you should be able to handle this."

"It's hard enough to find someone to care about as it is," Harry agreed. "I'm sick of people letting little stupid fears and made-up excuses keep them from saying what they really feel." He glanced pointedly back over his shoulder at Tonks and Lupin, aiming his next words directly at them. "Quit rationalizing. Quit talking yourselves out of what could be something good, if you gave it a chance."

He saw Tonks and Lupin look at each other. Then, slowly, Lupin held out his hand. Tonks took it, and they both smiled, and continued toward Hogwarts together.

Ron, meanwhile, hemmed and hawed and hooked a finger into the collar of his robes. The girls were watching him expectantly, Hermione with hands on hips and foot tapping, Luna with a polite quizzical look, and Ginny motioning as if to tell him to get on with it, you fool.

Harry reached into his pocket for the carved wooden band, but found something else first. A small, hard, faceted something. The Maleficum. He drew it out and looked at it. Green again, though slightly faded, as if Malfoy's health and well-being were still not entirely up to snuff after his ordeal.

He went toward Malfoy, who was at the base of the front stone steps with his mother and Snape. Most of the other Slytherins were still milling about, looking like they weren't quite ready to believe that it was over.

"Here," Harry said, holding out the Maleficum.

Malfoy, whose look of confusion had finally gone, snatched it back from him with a sneer. "Thanks for nothing, Potter!"

"You got what you wanted, didn't you? I saved your neck."

"Took you bloody long enough, and you weren't exactly careful about it either!"

"You're welcome," Harry said.

Malfoy flushed and seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.

Harry turned away.

He only got a few paces before Malfoy burst out, "Azkaban's too good for your stinking half-blood girlfriend! I hope she dies in there! I wish the dementors could still be there to suck out her soul like a cherry pip, then spit it straight into Hell!"

In a flash, Harry was on him.

He had the front of Malfoy's robes wadded up in his fist, yanking him away from his mother. The tip of his wand was a quarter-inch from Malfoy's startled left eye.

"Give me a reason, Malfoy," Harry said, his teeth clenched. "I'm this close already. I'll curse you where you stand and go to Azkaban with her."

Malfoy squealed and whimpered with terror.

Harry shook him, hard. "Well?"

"That's _enough_, Potter!" Snape ordered.

With a shove, Harry sent Malfoy stumbling backwards into his mother. Narcissa steadied him, her silvery-pale eyes cold on Harry.

"How dare you manhandle my son!" she said. "And how dare you defend that wretched whelp of a girl!"

"How dare _I_?" Harry shouted.

"Potter," Snape said warningly.

Harry's every muscle was quivering, and he wanted nothing more than to attack. There would be a certain beckoning peace in a berserk rage. But he forced himself to back down.

"I have never been more appalled at the way this school conducts its affairs," Narcissa Malfoy said loftily. "Over the years, we've grown to accept a degree of excessive tolerance and irresponsible short-sightedness from Dumbledore. But from you, Severus Snape?"

"I assure you, my sight is most keen when it comes to Potter and his ilk," Snape said.

"And yet you permit this to go on under your very nose? A student in your own House, no less... and for that matter, what are the standards of Slytherin House come to when such a lowly mongrel as _that_ can be admitted?"

"We are all rather at the mercy of the Sorting Hat," Snape said.

"Then I would at least expect you to keep a closer watch on the less savory elements!"

"You don't know, do you?" asked Harry. He laughed without a trace of humor. "You really don't know."

"What are you blathering about, Potter?" Snape asked irritably.

"Jane. You don't know why she did it."

"Obviously," said Narcissa Malfoy with an air of great condescension, "it was a spiteful, jealous lashing-out at the students of better bloodline and pedigree."

"Her mother," Harry said deliberately, looking from Snape to Narcissa and back with intense scrutiny, "was Amaryllis Derwent."

He wanted to see if the name got a reaction from either of them.

It did.

From both.

Narcissa sucked in a sharp breath and clamped her fingers down on her son's shoulders so hard that he yelped.  
Snape's eyes first widened, and then slitted. His head snapped around in the direction that the aureliphim had gone, as if trying to get a glimpse of Jane.

"That's... that's impossible," Narcissa said faintly.

"Maybe you should do the math, before you go insulting anyone's _pedigree_." Harry crossed his arms and eyed them coldly.

"What's he mean?" whined Malfoy, tugging on his mother's sleeve. "Who's Amaryllis Derwent?"

She looked down at him, her lips compressed. "That's none of your concern, Draco dear."

"Professor?" Malfoy turned to Snape.

Snape shook his head brusquely. He looked shaken, speechless.

"Nothing to say?" asked Harry. "Either of you? I imagine you could tell us some very enlightening things."

"She tried to kill _me_!" Malfoy said, now addressing his mother again. "I think I have a right to know why!"

"Hush, Draco."

"But Mother!"

"I said hush!" She pinched him by the ear.

Harry looked at Snape. "Nothing you'd care to add, Professor?"

"You've said all that needs be said," Snape replied icily.

"All right, then."

Harry turned his back on the three of them and walked back to his friends, as, in the distance, the tiny firespark that was the cage of flame finally vanished into the clear blue of the sky.

The End

Author's Afterword - I cannot believe how long of a story this turned out to be, and still only got into November of the school year. Thank you for reading and bearing with me all this way. I hope that it was a satisfying journey and that you enjoyed it as much as I did. Please feel free to send me your remarks. Yours in fandom, C.M.

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_page copyright 2005 by Christine Morgan_


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